


When the Ice Goes Out

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-10-02
Updated: 2000-10-02
Packaged: 2018-11-11 02:03:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11138982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Long past CotW, Fraser and Ray K. discover that life both it and isn't as simple as it seems.





	When the Ice Goes Out

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

(When the Ice Goes Out, c. 2000, Kellie Matthews) 

 

 

 

Rated NC-17 for M/M sex and occasional bad words. If you're considered a minor in your community please  
take off now, you shouldn't be reading this. You may also want to skip  
this if you're narrow-minded, easily offended, or have something against  
Chicago Flatfoots with Experimental Hair-- unless of course you're masochistic,  
in which case knock yourself out. The characters Benton Fraser and Ray  
Kowalski are from the television series Due South. I don't own 'em,  
I wish I did. I'd be a lot richer, plus I'd be insufferably smug. Yeah,  
the characters are property of Alliance, yadda, yadda, yadda. Everything  
else is my smutty intellectual property. Timeline: Post CotW.  
  
Soundtrack: John Gorka's "When the Ice Goes Out," and "Heroes;"  
Bruce Cockburn: I was going to list 'a few' songs from _Dart to the  
Heart_, then I realized it's pretty much the whole CD, but most especially  
"All the Ways I Want You," and "Closer to the Light."  
Also: Dar Williams' "Family."  
  
Big honkin' THANK YOU's to my betas: Betty, who has a way of dynamiting  
me when I'm stuck, and being relentless on characterization; and to Audra,  
for reminding me that just because I've never done something, that doesn't  
mean I can't do it or that it shouldn't be done. Oh, and as always,  
that comma thing. :-) --Kellie  
  


* * *

  
When the Ice Goes Out  
© 2000, Kellie Matthews  


  
        It's strange. I never  
imagined this, when I thought of the future. Oh, I always imagined I'd  
be alone, that's nothing new, but I never thought I'd regret it. I always  
thought I'd be content in my solitude, because I always was before.  
But now I'm . . . not. I find myself avoiding going home to my RCMP-supplied  
apartment at night, because all I do is sit there and think of all the  
things I miss. Which really boils down to one thing. One man. One  
friend.  
        So instead I sit in my  
darkened vehicle long after my shift should have ended, outside the town's  
most disreputable saloon, waiting for someone inside to pick a fight.  
Which they do, predictably, nearly every weekend night. Thus I can occupy  
my time with apprehending miscreants, booking them into the two-cell  
jail, getting them coffee to counteract the alcohol, though I know it  
really doesn't help at all. Oh, and administering first aid if needed.  
It's almost become a ritual.  
        As if on cue someone  
comes flying out the door to land in a heap on the porch. In the flickering  
neon glow of the beer advertisements I can see that it's Louis Lamarque.  
Following him like an angry bear is Martin Campbell. Let's see, I last  
had the two of them four weeks ago. I suddenly begin to have a sneaking  
suspicion that the fights are actually staged for my benefit, and wonder  
if they take a collection to pay their fines since they're always out  
and drinking the next night as if nothing had happened. With an average  
of two fights a week (Friday and Saturday nights, of course) and two  
arrestees per night, that means there must be at least eight people involved,  
with altercations taking place on a rotational schedule.  
        I get out of my car and  
head toward them, and see Martin take a quick glance in my direction  
before he raises a bottle and lashes out at Louis, missing him completely  
but shattering the bottle. He swears and shakes his hand, and I know  
he's cut himself. I can't allow this to continue. I walk up to the  
porch and lean on the rail, one foot up, studying the prone and kneeling  
figures. "Hello Martin, Louis," I say conversationally.  
"Martin, would you like to come down to the station and I'll see  
to your hand? I'd take you to the clinic but I'd hate to wake up Margery  
at this hour if it's something I can take care of."  
        He looks at me, puzzled.  
"Hunh?"  
        "Ain't you gonna  
arrest us, Benton?" Louis asks, seeming equally confused.  
        I shake my head. "No,  
not this time. I think it's time we stopped this charade, don't you?  
It's got to be costing you all a fortune, and aren't you tired of getting  
hurt?"  
        They exchange a look,  
and then Martin speaks. "You. . . uh . . . figgered it out?"  
        I nod. "Yes. I  
thank you all kindly for your efforts on my behalf, but I think you and  
your friends can stop now. I'll find something else to occupy my time."  
        "You sure? 'Cause  
we don't really mind. Gives us all something to do, and it's kinda been  
fun. We know you don't have much to occupy you here after the big city,  
and you seemed kind of down."  
        "I'm sure,"  
I say firmly. "Now, let me see your hand."  
        He shakes his head.  
"Nah, that's okay. It's just a scratch. I'll go get a broom and  
we'll clean up this mess."  
        "Good idea,"  
I say. "And I'll head on home."  
        They nod and I return  
to the Jeep. It's not until I pull up in back of the apartment that  
I realize I have no memory of driving home. I must have been on some  
sort of automatic pilot. I fervently hope I didn't hit anyone or anything,  
though I expect I'd have noticed that. I sit there in the darkness and  
feel a strange mixture of amusement and humiliation, and I wonder what  
Ray would say if I told him this story. I can almost hear his laughter,  
hear his voice, that peculiar nasal drawl. _'Jesus, Fraser, they make  
up crimes just to give you something to do? They must really like you  
up there in Freezerland.'_  
        The thought of Ray brings  
a tightness to my chest, and I swear under my breath. From the back  
seat Diefenbaker admonishes me for my language. "Fuck _off,_ "  
I snarl and throw open the door, practically hurling myself out of the  
seat. Dief scrambles out quickly, probably afraid I'll lock him in,  
and since I'm more than half-tempted it's probably wise of him. He  
hangs back as I climb the stairs and let myself into the apartment.  
I wait a moment, the door open, and he stops halfway up the stairs as  
if uncertain of his welcome.  
        "Are you coming  
in or did you intend for me to heat all outdoors for your comfort?"  
I inquire caustically.  
        He pointedly ignores  
me as he climbs the rest of the stairs and doesn't touch me as he enters.  
As I close the door and take off my outer garments he goes over and curls  
up under the kitchen table, facing away, and I wonder what in God's name  
is wrong with me that I can't even be civil to the only friend I have  
left. I know better than to try to apologize now: he'll want to snub  
me for a while to make things even. I go into the bedroom to undress.  
        As I hang up my brown  
uniform jacket in the closet next to my dress uniform I'm hit again with  
a wave of nostalgia. I haven't worn the serge in months. Not since  
I left Chicago, well, save for Sergeant Frobisher's funeral. I'd rather  
thought he might live forever: it had been a shock to get that call.  
Deliberately I turn my mind from thoughts of mortality to something more  
positive. Standing sentry on a sweltering Chicago summer afternoon,  
or on a chilly winter morning, the rush of traffic, the smell of exhaust,  
the giggle of schoolchildren trying to distract me . . . and Ray, succeeding  
in distracting me. An image flashes into my head: Ray in borrowed red.  
It's odd. The one thing I can really recall of him in Turnbull's uniform  
is that his posture, for once, was completely upright, not a slouch in  
sight. I can still remember the surprise of realizing he was not, in  
fact, shorter than I am.  
        Other things about those  
few days are far clearer in my mind. Ray sliding into the consulate  
on his knees, calling my name, _needing_ me. A conversation in  
a darkened hallway. Assurances of friendship, of partnership. Ray wearing  
my clothes. Odd how I'd pressed them on him after we returned to the  
consulate, as if I had some visceral need to remove Turnbull's mark from  
him and replace it with my own. Or not so odd, perhaps. I had wanted  
to mark him in far less civilized ways as well, but would never have  
dreamed of letting him know that.  
        And that is, of course,  
what put me here alone. Well, that and the successful outcome of the  
Muldoon affair. After our adventure to the Beaufort Sea, Ray and I had  
returned to Chicago even closer friends than ever, and it had been increasingly  
difficult for me to maintain the necessary distance. Finally my unwillingness  
to put my friendship with Ray at risk over my increasingly insistent  
and unrequitable desires had made me put in for a transfer. The request  
had been granted with a speed that made my head spin: apparently I had  
been rehabilitated in the eyes of the RCMP. I'm sure Inspector Thatcher's  
kind comments in my file hadn't hurt.  
        I can still remember  
the look in his eyes as he stood at the gate at the terminal waiting  
for me to board the plane. He'd tried not to let me see it, I know that,  
but it was there, a kind of bewildered betrayal. I know he didn't understand  
why I was leaving, and I could no more tell him than I could stay. Even  
so, he'd hugged me and wished me a safe journey and a good life, and  
after that it had taken every scrap of strength I own to leave. But  
I'd done it, and here I am, though my heart is nearly four thousand miles  
south-east of my body. One wouldn't think it possible to live without  
a heart, but like the Tin Man I've found it is possible, although it  
doesn't make for the most comfortable existence.  
        I realize I'm standing  
in front of my closet fondling a flannel shirt, the maize and gray one,  
the one Ray wore . . . and good God, I'm past pathetic. I'm going to  
have to get some counseling, because if I can't stop this I may end up  
on the streets of Chicago stalking Ray the way Diefenbaker stalks rabbits.  
It's a wonder I managed to pass my yearly mental health evaluation three  
weeks ago. I suspect that has more to do with my familiarity with the  
test than it does my actual sanity. I force myself to let go of the  
shirt and get ready for bed, but I'm not at all tired. Knowing I need  
to be at work in a scant five hours, I head for the kitchen and my grandmother's  
sovereign remedy for insomnia, a cup of chamomile tea.  
        As it's steeping I remember  
I still haven't looked at my mail and pick it up from where I left it  
on the table two days ago after my last trip to the post office. Sloppy.  
My father would be appalled. I flip through the pickings, several flyers  
for local businesses, one a pizza place. I haven't had pizza since I  
left Chicago, and just seeing the advertisement brings back too many  
memories. This time I find myself reading the list of available ingredients  
and smile foolishly at the idea of 'blubber' and 'lichen' as toppings.  
Actually, if the flyer is to be believed, pineapple is as popular here  
as it was there. Another ache wells up, and I toss the flyers into the  
recycling bin and go on through the stack.  
        The unmistakable brilliant  
gold of a National Geographic peeks a quarter inch out of the brown paper  
wrapper which hides the cover as if it contained something more salacious  
than fossils and forests. A renewal notice for said magazine, which  
reminds me all too forcibly of how long I've been living here. A postcard  
reminder that it's time for Diefenbaker to have his teeth cleaned, which  
reminds me that mine probably need it as well. Finally there are two  
envelopes with American stamps, both postmarked in Chicago nearly two  
weeks ago. Mail service here is often slow.  
        One of the letters is  
clearly from Francesca, I know her handwriting and her return address  
since she writes me regularly, keeping me up to date on the life I left  
behind. But the handwriting on the second envelope is masculine and  
messy, and oddly familiar. There is no return address. With a sudden  
shock I realize why the writing is familiar. It's Ray's. I grab a kitchen  
knife and slit open the envelope, removing the contents  
         _'Hey Frase; I'd've  
called to tell you this, but you're never home and I didn't want to bug  
you at work, so I thought I'd try that 'writing' thing that people are  
always talking about.' _  
        I smile, hearing his  
voice in my head, but the smile fades quickly as I wonder how many times  
he'd tried to reach me before giving up, and wondering why he would ever  
feel he couldn't contact me at work. I read on.  
         _'This is about my  
eighth go at this, and all the others sucked, so I figure I should quit  
trying to make it pretty or make excuses and just tell you right out  
that I'm quitting the Department. I know you're pissed at me now, and  
if you were here you'd give me the old 'tuck their kids in at night'  
speech, and it'd probably work, but you're not here so I'm doing what  
I have to do. I just thought you ought to hear it from me, not Frannie  
or Vecchio or, God forbid, Turnbull. Who, by the way, does not even  
come close to filling your granny-boots. Anyway, I hope you're doing  
good up there. Whenever I think about you I always remember the way  
you looked when we fell out of that damned plane. Nothing around for  
miles but snow and more snow and you with this smile on your face like  
you died and went to heaven. So I know you're where you belong, doing  
what you do best. Someday maybe I'll figure out where I belong and what  
I do best. Anyway, that's all the news. Say hi to Dief and give him  
a doughnut for me.'_  
        There is no close and  
no signature. He knows I know who it's from, and after that letter 'sincerely  
yours' would be ridiculous. I reach for a kitchen chair blindly and  
sit down, staring at the page, reading it over again. I can hear his  
voice as if he were here in my kitchen, telling me this aloud, and the  
tone his words conjure in my head is the one I heard only once in our  
time together, the day he told me about Beth Botrelle.  
        He's hurting. I can  
hear it in every line. Hurting badly. Why would he do this? Ray is  
one of the best police officers I have ever known. How can he say he  
doesn't belong in law enforcement? How can he say it's not what he does  
best? For the first time I wonder if in trying to do the right thing  
I have, yet again, done the wrong thing. It's something I've found I'm  
all too good at.  
        After a few minutes of  
dumbstruck speculation, I finally remember the second letter. I doubt  
that it's a coincidence that I received both simultaneously, and open  
Francesca's missive. It contains two pages, one a photocopied newspaper  
clipping. Ray's face looks out at me from the page, the photo from his  
personnel file. Taken years ago, a much younger man gazes solemnly at  
the camera. He's in uniform, something I never saw him wear the entire  
time I knew him.  
        The article, from about  
a month ago, mentions that he received a commendation for bravery and  
details the events which led to the award; a jewelry-store holdup in  
which Ray's actions saved the lives of the elderly proprietor of the  
store, two customers and a clerk. I'm more than surprised that he didn't  
mention it to me. I know he doesn't like to speak of his record, but  
I would think he'd at least have mentioned the incident. The second  
sheet is a flyer announcing a going-away party for Ray Kowalski. There's  
a yellow post-it note stuck to the page: _'I thought you'd want to  
know.'_ is written on it in Francesca's feminine script. There is  
no accompanying letter, which tells me that she was upset. The date  
of the party was a week ago today. I can't believe he didn't tell me  
this, either.  
        I know it's four a.m.  
in Chicago, but I don't care if I wake him. This is important, too important  
to wait, and at least at this hour I'm fairly certain he'll be home.  
I pick up my phone and dial Ray's number, still memorized after all this  
time. After a second's delay the connection goes through and I get two  
rings, then a click and a series of three escalating electronic tones.  
That's followed by a flat female voice which informs me that the number  
I have reached, and she repeats it so I know I didn't misdial, has been  
disconnected or is no longer in service. She instructs me to check the  
number and dial again. There's no need, though. It's Ray's number and  
I know it.  
        Now I'm seriously worried.  
He's left his job and his apartment as well. The fact that there was  
no return address on his letter didn't seem odd to me at first glance  
but now it does. It seems to me an indication that he does not want  
to be found, which, given my perverse nature, means I am all the more  
convinced I must do so. I start to dial the number for the 27th's detective  
division, and then stop, realizing that it's unlikely that Lieutenant  
Welsh will be there at this hour. I'll have to wait until later.  
        Knowing I won't sleep  
now, I sit down and occupy myself in writing up a request to Sergeant  
White for emergency leave, then leave a message at the airstrip for Walter  
Scott, the pilot who usually flies us in and out when we need to leave  
the area. I know I'll be leaving in the next twenty-four hours, I'm  
just not exactly certain when.

* * *  


  
        Thirty-three hours later  
I walk into the 27th, my duffle bag over my shoulder and Dief  
at my heels. I haven't slept, showered, or shaved in far too long, but  
I couldn't bring myself to stop anywhere along the line. Looking toward  
the civilian aide's desk I find a middle-aged black woman I don't know  
sitting there. I'd almost forgotten that Francesca is no longer working  
here, having decided to take on the more difficult but hopefully more  
rewarding duties of single parenthood.  
        I can see Lieutenant  
Welsh in his office, and head in that direction. I hadn't been able  
to reach him before I left home, and I'm pleased to find him here now.  
I'm halfway there when the black woman at the desk is on her feet and  
moving between me and my goal.  
        "Whoa there handsome,  
you can't just come waltzing in here like you own the place, and the  
dog has to wait outside."  
        "Wolf," The  
correction is automatic. "It's all right, I believe Lieutenant  
Welsh will see me."  
        "You do, do you?"  
she asks, putting her hands on her hips. "That's mighty presumptuous  
of you."  
        I'm reminded a bit of  
Momma Lolla. I try a smile, hoping it isn't too at odds with my unkempt  
appearance. "I don't mean to seem forward, ma'am, but I'm quite  
anxious to see the lieutenant, and I honestly don't believe he'll be  
displeased to see me. I'm sure if you check with him, he'll . . . ."  
        "Vera, is this man  
bothering . . . ."  
        The new voice trails  
off for a moment as I turn, surprised by familiar tones.  
        "Fraser?"  
she finishes, sounding just as surprised as I feel.  
        "Elaine?"  
        "It is you! What  
on earth are you doing here? You look like hell."  
        I'm not sure what to  
say in response, so I fall back on clichés. "It's good to  
see you, Elaine. Are you assigned here?"  
        "I've just been  
promoted to detective and reassigned here. I'm taking over for . . .  
." Her eyes slide toward the desk that used to be Ray's, and her  
expression goes a little tight. "Um, did you come to see. . . ?"  
        I stop her from completing  
her question with a shake my head. "No. I heard."  
        She nods solemnly. "Oh.  
Frannie?"  
        "Yes, and Ray.  
I'd like to see Lieutenant Welsh."  
        "I'm sure he'll  
be happy to see you." She turns to the aide with a smile. "It's  
okay, Vera, this is Constable Fraser. You've heard about him."  
        Judging from the new  
aide's expression she has indeed heard of me. I wonder what wild stories  
Ray has told people about me. She looks a little awestruck.  
        "Constable Fraser?"  
she repeats. "The Mountie?"  
        "Well, it's Corporal  
Fraser now," I say as I put out a hand and shake hers firmly. "But  
yes, I am with the RCMP. And you are?"  
        "Vera Babcock,"  
she says. "Pleased to meet you."  
        "Likewise,"  
I say, trying not to betray my impatience to see Lieutenant Welsh. Elaine  
must sense my mood, because she takes control.  
        "Corporal? Congratulations,  
Frase. You deserved it. Come on, let's go see Welsh."  
        I follow her gratefully,  
with a nod to Ms. Babcock. Elaine opens the lieutenant's door and grins.  
        "Hey, Lieutenant!  
Look what the wolf dragged in."  
        He looks up, and it's  
amazing to me how little he's changed in a year's time. Everything else  
may change around him, but he remains a constant. He smiles when he  
sees me, a big, open grin that's quickly muted to his usual gruff demeanor.  
        "Constable Fraser!  
No, it's Corporal, right?"  
        "Yes sir, it is."  
        "About damned time.  
So what brings you down here from the great white north? I gotta say  
your timing sucks. I really could've used you here about a month ago."  
        There is no doubt at  
all in my mind that he's referring to Ray's decision to leave the department,  
and I nod. "So I understand. I'm sorry, I didn't know about the  
situation or I would have been here earlier. I came as soon as I heard."  
        He looks surprised.  
"He didn't talk to you about it?"  
        I shake my head. "No,  
sir, he didn't. I've been somewhat difficult to reach of late. I knew  
nothing about any of this until I got his letter on Friday."  
        He looks at me for a  
long moment, and nods. "Well, that explains a few things. Have  
a seat, Fraser. Besbriss, shut the door, will you?"  
        Elaine shoots me a commiserating  
glance and I wonder if I am in for, as Ray would put it, an 'ass chewing.'  
If so, I richly deserve it, so I merely nod at her. The lieutenant is  
silent for a few moments after the door closes, then he leans forward,  
his hands together on the desk.  
        "You come down to  
see Kowalski?"  
        I nod. "Yes. Or  
rather, to try. I tried to call him when I got the letters, but his  
line has been disconnected, and there was no return address on the letter  
he sent me. I have a feeling he doesn't particularly want to be found."  
        Welsh nods. "Good  
call, Corporal. I talked myself blue in the face trying to change his  
mind, but he was dead set on leaving. When he walked out of the party  
he vanished off the face of the earth. Today was payday, I figured he'd  
turn up for his last check, but instead I found out he told Payroll to  
deposit it in the Widows and Orphans Fund. I had them check on his old  
account; they found out he closed it two weeks ago. I even had some  
of the blue and whites keeping an eye out for the GTO, and guess what?  
They found it on a used car lot. He sold it. I can't believe he sold  
that car. He loved that car. He's gone to ground in a big way."  
        "Do you have any  
idea why he would feel compelled to do so?" I ask, flat out, because  
I think if anyone knows, he will  
        He looks at me, puzzled.  
"You don't know any of this? I thought you two kept in touch."  
        Diefenbaker makes a low  
sound. It's a rebuke, but I'm glad because it gives me an excuse to  
look away, since I can't meet Welsh's gaze. "As I said, I've been  
rather hard to reach."  
        I'm ashamed to admit  
it even to myself, but the main reason I didn't replace my second-hand  
answering machine when it failed was because hearing Ray's voice when  
I was home alone was so difficult for me. I'd just assumed he would  
simply start calling me at work, he'd never had qualms about that in  
the past, but I realize now that he must have come to an altogether different  
conclusion. Any more it wasn't all that unusual for us to go for a week  
or two without contact, but how had I let that time stretch to more than  
a month? He must have thought I didn't want to hear from him at all.  
Robert Burns was all too accurate in his appraisal of tangled webs and  
deceit.  
        "Well, it's a little  
complicated," Welsh begins, slouching in his chair tiredly.  
        I'm confused for a moment  
because I'd been in my own head, and almost forgotten what I'd asked  
him.  
        "It all started  
with this jewelry store holdup. Ray happened to be in the area and he  
saw it going down. He went in and talked the kid out of his gun, saved  
a bunch of people's lives."  
        "Yes, Francesca  
sent me the newspaper clipping about the commendation."  
        Welsh winces. "That  
damned story, that's what did it, you know. That was the last straw  
for him."  
        "Why?"  
        "He'd told them  
he didn't want the commendation and would refuse it if they gave it to  
him. But the brass put out that press release anyway. He flipped out."  
        I study the Lieutenant  
for a moment, noting lines of strain in his bulldog countenance that  
hadn't been there a year ago. His explanation makes no sense to me.  
"I know Ray has never been one to need recognition for doing what  
he feels is simply his job, but it seems strange to me that he would  
react so strongly to a simple commendation. It's not as if he hasn't  
had them before."  
        "I know, I know,"  
Welsh says with a deep sigh. "But Ray had his reasons. A couple  
of days after it went down the old guy comes in, wants to drop the charges,  
says he wants the kid to get a second chance. Well, you know we couldn't  
do that, not on an armed robbery with plenty of witnesses, but it made  
Ray suspicious so he went and talked to the kid in the lockup. After  
that he decided something really was hinky, and started digging. Finally  
figured out that the old guy who runs the place had paid the kid to stage  
a hold-up so he could scam the insurance company.  
        "Problem is that  
Ray came along and messed up the deal, so instead of getting paid, the  
kid goes to jail. But there'd already been a bunch of stories about  
the incident, and the brass had been talking up the 'one good cop against  
the odds' story, and so they wanted to go ahead with the award and keep  
the other stuff quiet until the hoopla died down."  
        "Ah." It makes  
sense now. Or at least more sense. Still, the Ray I thought I knew  
would have gotten angry, would have made a 'stink.' He wouldn't have  
simply given up and gone away. Welsh nods.  
        "Ah, indeed. He  
was not a happy camper."  
        "It still seems  
out of character for him."  
        Welsh nods unhappily.  
"Yeah. I figured he'd blow the whole story to the papers. Guess  
I should've been suspicious when he didn't. But things have been pretty  
crazy around here lately, and I was busy putting out fires, so I didn't  
call him on it. I should've known better. Any time Kowalski doesn't  
rock the boat something's wrong, and he hasn't made waves in quite a  
while." He gets up suddenly, and paces a bit, then stops and looks  
out the window as he speaks. "I screwed up, Fraser. My best detective,  
and I knew something was wrong, but I just let it go because I was busy.  
I knew better. It wasn't just the scam, either. There's been something  
else eating at him for a while now, but I let that go too."  
        I feel a clench in my  
stomach. "Something else?"  
        Welsh turns to look at  
me again. "Yeah. Something else. For months now, really. And  
I didn't get into it with him because I liked that he was keeping his  
nose clean and behaving himself. Guess I can't really blame him for  
wanting out. I haven't been a very good lieutenant for him lately."  
        "What exactly is  
the something else?"  
        He shakes his head and  
shrugs. "I hoped you'd know, since you're friends and all."  
        I know he doesn't mean  
to twist the knife blade but he's doing it nonetheless. I shake my head.  
"No. Ray never mentioned anything was bothering him."  
        And he hadn't. When  
he'd called he had always sounded in good spirits, pleased to find me  
home. And when I'd called him I . . . the thought short-circuits abruptly  
as I review the last four or five times we talked. I hadn't called him  
on any of those occasions. Every time he had called me. The lieutenant  
isn't the one who's failed Ray. I have. Badly.  
        It gives me a hollow  
feeling to realize that Ray had been in distress and I hadn't been there  
for him, that he hadn't felt he could discuss his problems with me, whatever  
they were. I can feel the sting of tears in my eyes and I suppress them  
ruthlessly, clearing my throat. "Do you think I might be able to  
use departmental resources in attempting to find Ray? It sounds as  
if he needs to be found, whether he wants to be or not."  
        Welsh nods. "I  
was hoping you'd offer. I can't put any of my people on it officially  
because he's not breaking any laws, but I'm worried about him."  
        As am I.

* * *  


  
        After four days in Chicago  
I am no closer to finding Ray than I was the day I arrived. I only asked  
for a week's leave originally, and I had to fax in a request for an  
indefinite extension to my superior. He granted it, expressing his concern  
that he hoped the emergency would resolve itself soon, and politely not  
prying into the nature of said emergency. I'm lucky that we work in  
an area where there really is very little actual crime or he'd be unable  
to be so accommodating.  
        I've interviewed Ray's  
landlady, who supplied the information that Ray had requested that a  
local charity which benefits recovering alcoholics come and take away  
most of the contents of his apartment to be sold or used at their facility.  
The few remaining items-- four miscellaneous boxes, a trunk, his rolltop  
desk, couch, television and stereo-- had gone into a rental trailer designed  
to be towed behind a car. She hadn't actually seen him leave so she  
couldn't tell me what he'd been driving at that point, which is a shame  
because with her level of observational skills she probably would have  
been able to tell me the make, model, license plate, and quite possibly  
the vehicle's VIN.  
        The type of charity he  
chose makes me wonder if Ray's problem could be alcohol. It's a common  
one, and he'd once told me that he'd had some difficulty with it when  
Stella first left him, but during our tenure together he'd never had  
more than a social amount of liquor, and hadn't seemed particularly interested  
in it. Still, it's been a year now since I saw him, and if he hasn't  
been talking to me about what's really going on with him the problem  
could have resurfaced. The stresses that come with being an officer  
of the law are strong, and all too often drugs and alcohol become the  
method used to deal with them.  
        A conversation with Charles,  
of Chicago Collector's Cars where Ray sold the GTO, yields one more piece  
of information. While he did not purchase a vehicle from the lot there,  
he mentioned that he was interested in buying a used pick-up truck.  
Something 'with traction' he'd said, preferably four-wheel drive. Presumably  
Ray would need such a vehicle if he were planning a trip to a rugged  
area, or to a place where the weather is often worse than it is in Chicago.  
Ray is well able to survive in a wilderness area, I taught him those  
skills myself, so if that's his plan I know he'll be safe, but I hate  
the thought of him being alone. He's not a person who does alone well.  
He needs people, needs connection.  
         Thinking of connections  
and people makes me think of the people Ray had here in town. He and  
Francesca Vecchio and Ray's parents. When I'd first started investigating,  
Lieutenant Welsh told me he'd spoken with the Kowalskis and they had  
seemed both unaware and unconcerned. He'd suggested that I not tell  
them we were worried until we had ascertained whether or not there was  
something to be worried about, and I'd respected his wishes until now,  
but I think I'm going to have to speak with them. They may have some  
clue as to Ray's whereabouts, even if they're not aware they possess  
it. I can't imagine Ray leaving without giving them at least some indication  
where he's gone. It will be particularly difficult for me to go to them,  
though, because they know that Ray and I are friends and I'm certain  
they will be surprised by my ignorance.  
        I've tried several times  
since I arrived to contact Francesca and gotten only her answering machine.  
After mentioning it to Elaine, I discover that the Vecchios have gone  
out of town on a family excursion. Her absence has been particularly  
frustrating for me because she and Ray had a fairly close relationship,  
one which puzzled me because although Ray once seemed to indicate that  
he might find her attractive, from all I have observed their relationship  
more closely echoes the one they feigned while he was undercover-- the  
exasperated affection of true siblings. I think that if Ray has confided  
in anyone, it's Francesca. The upset expressed by the absence of a letter  
with the information she sent makes me suspect that even more strongly.  
        I confess I have wondered  
once or twice about the parentage of Francesca's son, Dominic, since  
I know that at one time Ray wanted children. However, if he were the  
father I am utterly certain of two things things: Francesca would not  
be a single parent nor would Ray have just picked up and left as he has.  
Ray may be many things but he is neither irresponsible nor a cad. In  
any case, without being able to reach Francesca, I'm left with the option  
of contacting the Kowalskis. I look up their address in Ray's folder,  
and go to Lieutenant Welsh's door, tapping lightly until he looks up.  
        "Sir, I'm afraid  
I need to go see Ray's parents."  
        He sighs. "Yeah,  
I figured you'd have to do that eventually. Try not to scare them, okay?"  
He makes a face and shakes his head suddenly. "What am I saying?  
This is you. You'll be on eggshells."  
        He's more right than  
he knows. "I'll try to be circumspect. I do have one slight difficulty,  
that being transportation. Do you think I might borrow a vehicle from  
the motor pool?"  
        For answer he digs into  
his pocket and removes a set of keys with a paper tag attached, which  
he tosses to me. "Here. Take this one. It's out back, next to  
my old Cutlass."  
        I glance at the tag,  
and see that it's from Chicago Collector's Cars. I lift my eyebrows  
at Lieutenant Welsh, who is turning a rather pronounced shade of pink.  
He clears his throat.  
        "Hey, it's a good  
car, a classic. Didn't want some punk kid with no sense buying it and  
wrecking it."  
        I can feel the smile  
that's desperate to escape and bite the inside of my cheek to control  
it as I nod. "Understood."  
        "Don't _you_  
wreck it," he says gruffly.  
        "I'll take every  
precaution, and thank you, sir, I appreciate it."  
        He nods, and our eyes  
meet, and I know he knows I mean more than I'm saying. I'm glad he bought  
the car. If my finances could have supported it I would have done so.  
Apparently neither of us could stomach the idea of a stranger ending  
up with the GTO. Diefenbaker follows me and when he sees Ray's car he  
races ahead, clearly excited, until he realizes that Ray isn't actually  
in the vehicle. He turns and gives me a reproachful look.  
        "I know," I  
say softly, opening the door to let him in. "I miss him too.  
We'll find him, I'm sure of it."  
        It feels strange to be  
behind the wheel without Ray grumbling about my driving, which has improved  
quite a bit since I saw him last. Policing an area as large as the one  
I have gives one a lot of time behind the wheel. He might not even be  
embarrassed to ride with me any more. After driving the RCMP's utility  
vehicle all over hell and gone, I can also appreciate the GTO's handling  
far more than I did in the past.  
        The drive out to Ray's  
parent's place in Skokie takes less than half an hour. This time of  
day there's very little traffic on the expressway, and since I'd been  
there once or twice before I left Chicago, locating the Kowalskis' trailer  
is easy. I pull up in front and park. Diefenbaker wants to come with  
me but I remember that Ray's mother wasn't wild about having a large  
canid in the trailer, so I ask him to stay and watch the car, leaving  
the windows partly down. The trailer's front door opens as I'm walking  
up the steps to the small porch, and Ray's mother looks out.  
        She seems puzzled, but  
it's not until she looks past me to the car that I realize why. She  
must have been expecting Ray. That immediately tells me that Ray's parents  
don't know he sold the car. That doesn't bode well for my purposes.  
I remove my hat and smile at Ray's mother, hoping my concern doesn't  
show.  
        "Good afternoon  
Mrs. Kowalski, I hope you're well."  
        She looks at me oddly,  
her round face tense, expressing what appears to be . . . distaste. .  
. as she looks up at me. "Hello, Mr. Fraser, what are you doing  
here?" she asks, her voice devoid of its usual pleasant tone.  
        I'm taken aback by the  
obvious chill of her greeting, but I forge ahead. "I'm looking  
for Ray, ma'am. I was hoping you might be able to help me locate him."  
        Her tension visibly increases.  
"No, I can't help you. You should go before . . . ." She stops  
short, then goes on. "You should just go."  
        "I realize you may  
not know where he is at the moment," I persist, "but you may  
have information you don't realize you have that could assist me. I'd  
just like to find him, it's important."  
        She stares at me with  
a look that's at once speculative and slightly concerned. "Why  
do you need to find him? Have you got it? Does he have it?"  
        I frown, puzzled. "It?"  
        She lowers her voice  
almost to a whisper. "That disease you people get."  
        I'm still trying to figure  
that one out, and all I've come up with is the 'blue flu' that Ray once  
mentioned, when I hear Damian Kowalski's voice.  
        "Barbara? Who's  
at the door?"  
        A resigned expression  
flashes across her face, and a moment later Ray's father is standing  
behind her. He looks much as I remember, stockier than Ray, and heavyset,  
but with oddly similar hair. He scowls when he sees me.  
        "What the hell do  
you want?" he snaps "Haven't you done enough damage? You had  
to come back?"  
        Now I'm more than taken  
aback, I'm stunned. I can't imagine what I have done to earn this enmity.  
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand. . . ."  
        "What's hard to  
understand? We don't want you around here." He looks past me and  
his eyes narrow. "That's Ray's car. Is he here?"  
        "No sir, he's not  
here, I'm attempting to locate him," I say, desperately trying to  
get the conversation back on some sort of even keel.  
        He looks at me again  
with disdain. "I suppose he gave it to you, since you're so . .  
. close. What, did you two have a little fight? That's too bad."  
        The sing-song taunt indicates  
no such empathy, and while I may sometimes play at naïvete to encourage  
confidences, after living in Chicago for three years there's very little  
I haven't seen or heard. I know very well that there's only one thing  
that leads otherwise rational people to behave this way. I have no  
idea why they'd think that about Ray, but true or not it makes me angry  
that his own parents could treat him so shabbily, so my reply is less  
than tactful.  
        "No, Ray didn't  
give me the car, he sold it before he disappeared. Lieutenant Welsh  
bought it, and he's letting me use it as a favor while I'm trying to  
find Ray."  
        That seems to get through  
to Ray's father as nothing else has. His face goes pale, and for a moment  
I feel a glimmer of hope that he realizes how serious this is, but his  
next words extinguish that hope.  
        "He sold the GTO?  
To who?"  
        I can feel my jaw drop  
at the realization that the loss of the car matters more to him than  
the loss of his son. I close my mouth with a snap. "To a used  
car dealer, apparently, but as I said, Lieutenant Welsh purchased it  
from there when he found it. Now if you'd be so kind as to answer me  
I'll go. Have you any idea where Ray is?"  
        He stares at me coldly.  
"No, and I don't care. I told him to stay away until he remembers  
how to be a man."  
        Clearly Damien Kowalski  
is a lost cause, so I look to Barbara Kowalski. It had seemed earlier  
as if she at least had some concern for Ray's health. "Ma'am, if  
you know anything . . . ."  
        She shakes her head.  
"Even if I knew I wouldn't tell you. I hope he's trying to straighten  
himself out, and you're a bad influence. My Stanley was fine until he  
started hanging around with you."  
        They're both glaring  
at me as if sheer willpower can remove me from their doorstep. I can  
think of many things I would like to say to them, and I feel the muscles  
in my jaw bunching as I hold onto my temper. "I'm very sorry that  
you feel that way, Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski. Whatever your son is or is  
not, he is a good man, and he has given all he has to protect and serve  
the community, which includes the two of you whether you like it or not.  
For that he should be commended, not reviled."  
        "Commended?"  
Damien Kowalski says incredulously. "He picked a dirty job, and  
couldn't even stick that. He quit. He's a loser and . . . worse, and  
he's not my son any more. Now get off my property. "  
        With those words he slams  
the door, cutting off any possible response. I stand there for a moment  
trying to process the information, trying to square these people with  
the ones who had driven across country to reconcile with Ray, who had  
regularly invited Ray and me over to dinner, who had ironed his shirts,  
and worked on his car, and-- I can't. It's as if they are completely  
different people, just wearing the Kowalskis' bodies. The effects of  
prejudice have never been more clearly brought home to me. I'd liked  
these people, they had appeared to like me, and they had loved their  
son. Why should any of that have changed simply because of who they  
think he prefers in bed?  
        This is the first time  
since I caught Muldoon that I have experienced a nearly overwhelming  
desire to do actual physical harm to someone. I have to consciously  
unclench my hands as I turn and walk back to the car. I understand now  
why Ray sold the GTO. I wouldn't want the reminders either. I'm half  
tempted to leave the car here and walk back, but that would be wrong,  
it belongs to Lieutenant Welsh now, and there is a certain feeling of  
satisfaction in knowing that Ray's father won't get his hands on it.  
As I get in and start the car it occurs to me that I shouldn't be so  
surprised. After all, Damien Kowalski chose to estrange himself from  
his son for over a decade simply over his choice of career. Why should  
this be any different?  
        It's not until I'm halfway  
back to the station that it really begins to sink in. Ray's parents  
clearly think he's . . . I suppose the word of choice these days is 'gay.'  
Why do they think that? Ray was a married man for many years, and he  
never showed any sign of being interested in men. If he had, then .  
. . well, I'm fairly certain that I would not have gone back to Canada.  
I'm not particularly surprised they think I'm gay. After all, I've pretty  
much come to that determination myself. When the only person who appeals  
to you sexually for well over three years is of the same gender you are,  
it's rather an inescapable conclusion.  
        From the seat next to  
me Diefenbaker makes a low growl. Startled, I look at him. "You  
could lip read through the screen?"  
        He makes a confirmatory  
sound, and I sigh. "I wish I knew why they thought that. It's  
perfectly ridiculous. I can't believe they've made Ray miserable over  
a mistaken notion, but if . . . what?"  
        Dief grumbles again,  
eyeing me like I'm the slowest dog on the team.  
        "He is not. He  
was married, for heaven's sake."  
        He makes a sound I can  
only call a snort, and turns to look out the window. He has a point.  
Even Oscar Wilde was married. We ride in silence for a few minutes, and  
then I look over at him. "You really think so?"  
        His response is short  
and definitive. I think about it some more, and instead of heading back  
to the 27th, I take us to one of the small public parks along the lakeshore.  
Pulling into the parking lot near it, I look at Dief. "Come on.  
We're going for a walk."  
        He follows me toward  
the lake. We pass a group of schoolchildren who all want to pet him,  
and since he's willing we stop for a moment. Their teacher, an attractive  
young woman with dark hair and eyes regards us suspiciously.  
        "Does he bite?"  
she asks me, holding one hand out like a traffic officer to stop her  
charges from darting forward.  
        "Never a child,"  
I say reassuringly. "He's worked for the police, and is very well  
behaved." Dief looks at me in amusement and I amend that. "Well,  
except with me."  
        That breaks the ice and  
the teacher laughs and allows her flock to move forward. "I used  
to have a dog who was like that." She looks at Dief critically.  
"He's a good-looking animal. You say he's a police dog?"  
        It's on my lips to correct  
her, then I decide that in this case it might be best if I don't mention  
he's a wolf. "He's worked for the police, yes."  
        "That's interesting.  
How did you end up with a police dog?" Her gaze goes to my hat.  
"Are you a park ranger?"  
        I've fielded that question  
a few hundred times, and stifle the sigh it brings. "Actually,  
I'm with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."  
        That statement garners  
almost as much attention as Diefenbaker did, and I find myself giving  
an impromptu lecture on Canada and the RCMP. After a few moments I finish  
up by suggesting they schedule a visit to the consulate. The young woman  
asks if I work there and seems disappointed when I tell her no. It's  
not until we're well past her group on our way to the waterfront that  
it occurs to me she was flirting. At one time I'd have noticed immediately,  
and it would have made me uncomfortable. This time I simply hadn't noticed.  
I'm not certain that's a good thing.  
        The day is turning cold  
and there's no one else near the water. The air smells overpoweringly  
of dead fish and algae; a fitting scent for my mental condition, which  
has apparently stagnated while I wasn't paying attention. We walk the  
beach and I stare out at the waves on the lake, feeling cold though the  
temperature is relatively mild. Without looking at Dief, I speak quietly.  
"Ray needed me, and I wasn't there. What kind of friend am I?  
He probably thinks I've abandoned him, just as his parents have. I never  
meant to, it's just that it's been so. . . difficult."  
        To my surprise Diefenbaker  
doesn't make a snide comment, just a sympathetic moan.  
        "I shouldn't have  
left the way I did, and I shouldn't have avoided him. Sheer cowardice  
on my part." I can hear the disgust in my voice. Diefenbaker doesn't  
sympathize this time. He knows I'm right. I think back on the confrontation  
with the Kowalskis. What on earth would make them think that Ray is  
gay? Not that it matters, but it's just one more element of confusion  
in an already chaotic turn of events. They had seemed very certain of  
it, as if they had proof positive. Had Ray met someone? Taken him 'home  
to meet the parents,' as the ritual goes?  
        I'm stricken suddenly  
with an overwhelming wave of jealousy at that thought, and have to consciously  
shake it off. His parents could be completely mistaken in their beliefs.  
But if they're not . . . I shouldn't speculate, I really shouldn't, but  
I can't seem to help it. What would have happened if I'd told Ray the  
truth a year ago, confessed to him my reasons for needing to leave?  
I'll never know now, and that makes me ache. I could have told him in  
a generic sort of way, without revealing my attraction to him. Even  
if he wasn't attracted to me personally, perhaps knowing that we were  
both struggling with the same sort of issues might have been helpful  
to him.  
        I'm not ashamed of my  
feelings, I've never had much in the way of prejudices, but even so I'd  
been afraid of Ray's reaction to them, if I had mustered the courage  
to tell him. Law enforcement officers, especially American ones, are  
not known for their tolerance, and I had tarred Ray with that brush.  
I am ashamed of myself for making that assumption. I'd been so sure  
of his reaction, thinking I knew him better than anyone else. I thought  
I'd known every secret, every facet of Ray, as if he were a map and all  
I needed to do was look at it, or him, to know the terrain. I was wrong.  
Arrogant, in fact, as my father had once pointed out. I have to wonder  
now if I ever knew him at all. He's become a mystery, one I have to  
solve. And when I find him, no matter whether his parents are correct  
or not, I owe him the truth and no less.  
        One thing I know. Despite  
Barbara Kowalski's assertion that she hoped Ray was 'straightening himself  
out' I doubt that he is, at least not in the sense she meant. Ray has  
a will like iron, or perhaps titanium might be a better metaphor. Once  
he's set on his path, he won't be turned from it, as he has amply demonstrated  
time and time again, not the least by his decision to stick with his  
choice to become a police officer and by so doing estranging himself  
from his family for well over a decade. He's doing that again. Selling  
the GTO, moving without leaving a forwarding address: all this says to  
me that he has accepted the break, even embraced it. I just wish he  
hadn't felt he had to include me in those he was breaking from.  
        Diefenbaker nudges my  
knee, and I look down. "Yes, you're right, we're wasting time.  
Let's go."

* * *  


  
        I arrive back at the  
27th and promptly turn around and leave again, spurred by  
a message from Elaine that the Vecchios are back from their trip. On  
many levels it feels strangely nostalgic to drive up to that house on  
Octavia, and I wonder briefly how Ray and Stella Vecchio are doing down  
in Florida. I hear from Ray periodically, phone calls full of good-natured  
grousing about the weather, the bowling alley, and Stella, who apparently  
is little easier for Ray Vecchio to live with than she was for Ray Kowalski.  
        That's been happening  
less frequently as they adapt to one another. There had been some strain  
in their marriage at first, especially after Stella had proven as adamantly  
opposed to having children as she had been in her first marriage. Coming  
from a large Italian family, Ray had expected her to change her mind  
on that issue and had been shocked when he didn't get his way. I remember  
quite a few late-night phone conversations with Ray, playing devil's  
advocate and pointing out that though as 'The Bookman' he'd gotten used  
to always getting his way, that wasn't how things happened in 'real life.'  
        Eventually they'd gotten  
through it, helped, no doubt, by Stella going back into practice part-time,  
and Ray's decision to start a small security consulting business. They'd  
both gotten bored with the bowling alley rather quickly, and my suggestion  
that they hire someone to run it for them had been a good one. Now  
they still have it to 'play' with when they like, but they're occupied  
with more interesting tasks most of the time. As I'm getting out of  
the car and leaning in to retrieve my hat I hear the screen door bang  
open noisily and a familiar feminine voice calls out loudly.  
        "Ray! Thank God!  
I was scared you'd . . . ."  
        Francesca's voice trails  
off as I straighten, hat in hand, and Diefenbaker slides past me to bound  
happily over to her. She looks poleaxed.  
        "Fraser?" she  
gasps incredulously.  
        "Hello, Francesca,"  
I say.  
        She pales noticeably  
as her eyes dart from me to the car and back. "What are you doing  
here? What's wrong? Where's Ray? How come you have his car?"  
        From the way her chin  
lifts I know means she's preparing to hear bad news and I realize she  
probably thinks I've been sent to deliver it to her gently. Clearly  
it had not been a wise choice to bring Ray's car. "I don't know  
where Ray is. I was hoping you might be able to help me find him."  
        She relaxes a little,  
but not completely. A spark lights in her gaze. "Oh, so you want  
to find him now that it's too late? Where were you before?" she  
demands.  
        I can't meet her eyes.  
"I was being a coward," I say quietly.  
        Dief whines. He doesn't  
like the strain between us. A moment later she's got her arms around  
me, hugging me. I return her hug a little awkwardly. I'm not good  
at expressing emotion, physically, or otherwise.  
        "Frase, I'm sorry.  
I shouldn't have yelled at you. You may be stubborn and dense and irritating,  
but you're not a coward.  
        Pain threatens to strangle  
me. "I am," I manage to say hoarsely. "You have every  
right to be angry with me. I should have been here." I step back.  
"What can you tell me?"  
        She sighs and takes my  
hand a little impatiently. "Come on, inside. The neighbors will  
talk about me throwing myself at a good-looking guy right out in public.  
Besides, you haven't met Nicky, and I have some news for you."  
        We go inside and she  
fixes tea for both of us and I make the appropriate noises over her sleeping  
son, noting to myself that he appears to have inherited the Vecchio profile,  
though his hair is a lighter brown than his mother's and his complexion  
distinctly fairer. Finally we're seated in the living room, sipping  
our tea, Diefenbaker enjoying a cookie and getting crumbs on the carpet.  
I clear my throat.  
        "You said you had  
news? Good, I hope."  
        "I think so, but  
Ma's not so thrilled." She wrinkles her nose in an expression that's  
both smile and scowl. "Dominic's going to have a baby brother or  
sister."  
        Startled, I can't help  
but look at her flat midriff, and she laughs.  
        "It's early days.  
I'm not showing yet, won't for a while."  
        "I . . . see. Well,  
congratulations, that is, if it's what you want."  
        She laughs. "It  
is, it definitely is. And I know you're dying to ask so I'll tell you,  
the father's a med student at the university, and no, I'm not planning  
to get married. See, I've done the whole marriage thing, and it didn't  
work out. But I always wanted kids. Thought I was stuck until I finally  
figured out that you don't have to have one to have the other. So, yeah,  
I'm happy, and I get beautiful, smart babies, without having to put up  
with the toilet seat getting left up all the time and dirty socks in  
the living room."  
        "An elegant solution,"  
I say, thinking wistfully that I wouldn't mind either of those things,  
given the right circumstances.  
        "I thought so.  
Can I get you to tell Ma that?" she asks with a laugh, then sobers  
abruptly. "So, you got my letter?"  
        I nod. "Yes, and  
one from Ray. I came as soon as I could. Lieutenant Welsh explained  
about the commendation."  
        She sighs. "That  
was just the last straw, I think. Ray hasn't been the same since you  
left. Even before the whole commendation thing he was having trouble.  
Told me he was having a hard time 'seeing the good in people' any more.  
You were always good at helping him, all of us really, to see that good  
stuff."  
        Guilt wraps its tendrils  
more firmly around me as I listen to her, and I find myself staring at  
my hat where it rests on my knees, afraid to lift my gaze because of  
what she might see in my eyes.  
        "I didn't think  
he meant he was _leaving_ leaving," she continues, almost nonsensically  
but I understand her meaning. "I thought he was joking. Even when  
they got to planning that stupid party I kept expecting him to say 'Ha!  
Fooled you! Not leaving!' But he didn't, he never said it, and he left.  
I figured he'd last two weeks, tops, and then go back to work once it  
was out of his system, but I went to his place to take him some cookies  
a few days later and got the shock of my life when some stranger answered  
the door."  
        That makes me look up  
finally. "He didn't tell you he was moving?"  
        She shakes her head.  
"Not a word. Well, not a word that I couldn't take the other way  
if I wanted to. I should have known, though, when he said good-bye at  
the party. He gave me a hug and kissed me here," she puts a finger  
to her forehead, "and told me he'd miss me. That right there shoulda  
told me he was deranged."  
        She says it jokingly,  
but I know what she means. It was out of character for them, and she's  
right, it should have warned her, just as Ray's silence should have warned  
me if I'd been listening to it.  
        "Neither of us saw  
it coming."  
        She shivers suddenly.  
"God, we're talking about him like he's dead!"  
        "He's not dead,"  
I say fiercely, almost growling.  
        She reaches over and  
pats my hand. "I know that, I know he's not. That's why I don't  
want to talk about him like that. So, you have any clues?"  
        I shake my head. "No,  
not really. He sold his car, left no forwarding address at his apartment,  
closed his bank accounts, and so far as I can ascertain has not updated  
any of the contact information on his retirement account or insurance  
policies. There's been no activity on his credit cards, and Social Security  
has no record of his having registered with a new place of employment.  
I went to see his parents earlier today but they were . . . not helpful."  
        She sighs. "Yeah,  
that figures. Ray said he had some kind of blowup with his dad again.  
Didn't say what, but . . . I think maybe I know. Fraser, can I ask you  
something? Something really, really personal?"  
        I feel a moment of trepidation,  
but I nod anyway. "You can ask me anything, Francesca, you know  
that."  
        She gives me a sour look.  
"Yeah, I know I can ask, and I know if you don't want to answer  
you'll tell me a story about a moose or something."  
        She smiles to take the  
sting out of her words, and I smile back ruefully, acknowledging the  
truth of her statement. "Go ahead and ask. I'll try not to give  
you a moose-related answer."  
        She nods, and takes a  
deep breath. "How do you feel about it when a person likes somebody  
else, and that somebody is, like, the same kind of person as the first  
guy?"  
        I stare at her, trying  
to make sense of that. "Come again?"  
        She sighs. "I mean  
like when a guy likes another guy, you know, _that_ way."  
        "Which wa . . .  
ah. You mean how do I feel about same-sex partnerships?"  
        As soon as the word leaves  
my lips I can almost hear Ray's voice, _'. . . no ship like partnership.'_  
I know I can be somewhat oblivious at times, and suddenly I'm wondering  
if Ray was saying more than I realized. As a matter of fact, now that  
I think about it the fact that my father was constantly equating partnership  
with marriage is a more than mind-boggling thought.  
        Francesca nods. "Yeah,  
that's what I meant."  
        I phrase my reply cautiously,  
trying not to wonder why she's asking me that. "I think that love  
is so rare a gift that it would be wrong to dismiss any honest expression  
of it."  
        She looks relieved.  
"I'm really glad, Frase, because I've got something you need to  
see. Hang on, I need to go get something. I'll be right back."  
        I wait while she goes  
upstairs. A few moments later she returns with an envelope from which  
she removes the contents, holding the page out to me.  
        "I don't want to  
hear anything about mail-tampering being a federal offense, okay, Fraser?  
It wasn't sealed, so anybody could look at it. When I went over to Ray's  
old place with the cookies, the new tenant gave me some mail that came  
for Ray after he left. That was in it."  
        I take the letter and  
start to read. After only a few sentences I start to feel ill. It's  
from an organization which claims to 'cure' homosexuality. It states  
that 'concerned friends' asked that Ray be sent information regarding  
the program. I have little doubt who those concerned friends were.  
        "You don't think  
he. . . ." Francesca begins tentatively.  
        "No," I say  
firmly. "I don't. Wherever Ray is, it's not there. I'm sure of  
that." Actually, I'm not at all sure, not with everything I thought  
I knew about Ray being turned on its head, but I need to believe it so  
I say it as if I do. "Tell me what you talked about before he left.  
You said he was having trouble seeing the good in people? Did he say  
anything else?"  
        "No, not really.  
We talked about Dominic some, that he's starting to walk and can say  
a few words. Ray always got along great with Nicky, he was really good  
with him. Did you know he babysat for me all the time?"  
        I shake my head, though  
it doesn't surprise me. Ray is one of those people who always seems  
to get along with animals and children. Well, except for Janet Morse's  
youngsters which always struck me as odd, but then, maybe he just hadn't  
tried very hard. He hadn't liked Janet much. "He said nothing  
at all about his plans?"  
        She shakes her head.  
"No, that's why I never thought he was really leaving. I mean,  
he's gotta have a job somewhere, right? I know he used up a lot of his  
savings going on that hand thing you guys did, so he would need to get  
one before what he has left runs out, but he never said anything about  
what he was going to do. He did sometimes say that kids are the only  
good things left in the world, and how he wished he could do something  
that helped kids. But that wouldn't make sense, because those kinds  
of jobs don't usually pay, so I'm afraid I'm not a big help, I'm sorry,  
Fraser."  
        "It's all right.  
If you think of anything else, leave a message with Elaine, she'll make  
sure I get it."  
        She nods and stands.  
"I don't suppose you'd like to stay for supper?"  
        I shake my head. "No,  
I need to get back, but thank you kindly."  
        She smiles. "Wow,  
it's been a long time. It's nice to hear that again." She looks  
at me again, bites her lip, then looks determined as she plows ahead.  
"So, um, did you and Ray have a fight or something? Is that why  
you left?"  
        "No, it was just  
. . . my reasons were personal. I felt I needed to go."  
        "Oh. I thought  
maybe . . . well, that maybe the two of you were . . . and you maybe  
. . . ."  
        "We were never involved  
that way," I interrupt gently, saving her from the awkwardness of  
having to put her hypothesis into words. "I don't believe that  
Ray has those kind of feelings for me."  
        "You don't?"  
She sounds surprised.  
        I shake my head. "I  
have no reason to believe he does."  
        "Hmm," she  
says, in a way that makes me wonder what she's thinking. "Okay,  
if you say so." She cocks her head and looks at me speculatively.  
"But if it turned out he did, how would you feel about it?"  
        Well, that's quite blunt.  
There's really no way to misinterpret what she's asking. It's tempting  
to tell her it's none of her business, but perhaps she deserves to know.  
It may help her understand my actions a little better. I swallow, trying  
to get moisture into a suddenly dry mouth, and feel my fingers smooth  
over my eyebrow, an action I know betrays my nervousness, but that I  
can't seem to help. "Happy, Francesca. I would feel happy."  
        She looks at me for a  
long moment, and I brace myself for an explosion, but none comes. After  
a moment she sighs. "I had a feeling. And thanks for telling me.  
I guess on the one hand that makes me feel better, because it means it  
wasn't just _me_ you didn't want, but it also makes me feel worse."  
        "Why?"  
        She looks at me oddly  
and shakes her head, a small smile curving her mouth. "Fraser,  
do you know how much a pound of nails weighs on Pluto?"  
        I stare at her for a  
moment, puzzled, feeling a strange sense of deja vu as I answer. "Certainly.  
It's the same as a pound of cheese. Six point four ounces."  
        Her smile widens. "So  
how come you don't know what's right under your nose?"  
        There's a faint echo  
of Ray's voice in my head as she speaks, and I realize why as I finally  
remember him asking me those very questions. That realization brings  
me up short, and I start to think, _really_ think about my relationship  
with Ray. And I realize that I may indeed have been ignoring what's  
right under my nose. I can't be certain, not without finding Ray, not  
without talking to him, but . . . . I feel my face heat a little as  
Francesca continues to watch me, waiting. I crack my neck and clear  
my throat. "Understood."  
        "Boy, it's a gold  
star day when _I_ get to tell _you_ something you don't know,"  
she says, grinning. "You better tell me if you find out anything,  
okay?"  
        I nod and stand to go.  
"I will. And, Francesca, thank you."  
        She stands too, and gives  
me another hug. "Anytime, Frase."  
        This time returning the  
embrace feels less awkward to me. It's a relief to have told her, told  
someone. Strange that it should be, but undeniably so.

* * *  


  
        I return to the 27th  
to drop off the car and check in with Lieutenant Welsh. I don't, of  
course, tell him what Ray's parents and Francesca told me. It's all  
hearsay at this point in any case, and even if it were confirmed I don't  
think he'd take it well. He's a good man, but this particular prejudice  
is strongly ingrained in our profession. I just let him know that I had  
made no real progress.  
        He asks me to dinner  
but I'm tired, emotionally raw, very confused, and desperately in need  
of some time alone. Diefenbaker and I walk back to the inexpensive motel  
we found, one not too particular about who, or what, inhabits its rooms.  
Once there I take a long, hot shower, as if I could somehow wash the  
disgust of Ray's parents off my skin. It doesn't work, of course, but  
just ridding myself of a day's accumulated city-grime does leave me feeling  
slightly better.  
        After drying off I pull  
on a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, and as I'm looking in my duffel for  
that letter from Ray Dief grumbles about having to subsist all day on  
a single cookie. Guiltily I realize he's right. Just because I'm obsessed  
with what I'm doing doesn't mean he should suffer. I feel culpable  
enough to phone out for a pizza from Ray's old favorite vendor.  
        As we wait for the delivery  
I sit down on the bed--the only furniture in the room-- with a notepad  
and pen to try and lay out what I know in the vague hope of finding some  
perfectly obvious clue that has somehow eluded me. Unfortunately my  
mind doesn't want to focus. It continually drifts away from what I'm  
supposed to be doing to idle speculation about whether Ray's parents,  
and more importantly Francesca, could possibly be right. In the middle  
of one of those flights of fancy there's a knock at the door. I grab  
my jeans and pull them on, embarrassed that I hadn't done so after ordering  
the food, and open the door to a stocky man holding an insulated carrier  
whose face is startlingly familiar. I really hadn't expected that after  
this long Sandor would still be working for Tony, or that he might be  
the driver on duty tonight.  
        "Somebody here order  
a ham and pineapple . . . hey! Constable Fraser?"  
        I don't bother to correct  
him. "Hello, Sandor, it's good to see you."  
        "Same here,"  
he says, smiling as Diefenbaker ambles over to greet him. "Good  
to see you too, bud," he says to Dief, waving the flat box in front  
of his muzzle. "Bet you've missed this."  
        Dief agrees vocally as  
I get out the money for the pizza. Sandor chuckles. "Still using  
that Monopoly money, hunh?"  
        "I'm afraid so,  
I'm sorry. I haven't had time to exchange any."  
        "That's okay. I  
know a place that doesn't gouge too bad. Man, I haven't seen you guys  
in ages. What're you doing down here in the Windy City? Ray said you  
went back up north."  
        "I did. I came  
down to find Ray."  
        Sandor shoots me a strange  
look as we trade money and pizza.  
        "If you're here  
looking for Ray then you're looking in the wrong place."  
        I almost drop the pizza  
box, which I'm sure would have delighted Diefenbaker but after a year  
without junk food he might overdose on it. "What?" I manage  
to say, juggling the box back to safety.  
        "Last time I saw  
him, I joked about him ordering an extra-large double-cheese just for  
himself, and he said it was okay, 'cause he was moving someplace colder  
and he'd need the extra calories."  
        "Think back, please,  
did he say where, exactly?"  
        Sandor thinks, then shrugs.  
"Nah, he didn't, but I figured it must a big city, or whatever passes  
for one north of here. This is Ray we're talking about. Not much of  
a country boy."  
        I refrain from enlightening  
him on just how capable Ray had proven himself to be in 'the country,'  
but I suspect he's right. Given his background, Ray would likely search  
out a city. "North of here? Did he say that?"  
        "No, actually he  
didn't, which I thought was kind of strange at the time, 'cause I asked  
him where he was going and he just grinned and said he was off to see  
the twins."  
        "Twins?"  
        Sandor nods. "Yeah,  
twins. I thought maybe he had a date with a couple of hot babes or something.  
I don't know. But he definitely said twins."  
        I believe him. He has  
an excellent memory, as he's proven on more than one occasion. "Thank  
you, you've been a great assistance in helping me refine my search parameters,"  
I say, holding out several extra bills.  
        He looks at me, at the  
money, and frowns. "Is Ray in some kind of trouble?"  
        "I don't know yet,  
he may or may not be, but in either case this is the first solid lead  
I've had on his whereabouts in four days."  
        "Put your money  
away then."  
        I nod and put it away.  
I know he's fond of Ray, and don't want to offend him by offering a second  
time.  
        "Look, I gotta get  
back to work but if I think of anything else I'll leave a note at the  
desk downstairs, okay?"  
        "I'd be grateful,  
thank you kindly. You can also reach me through the 27th."  
        He nods. "No problem,  
Ray's the best. Anything I can do for him, I'll do."  
        "Thank you again,"  
I say, closing the door behind him and absently setting the pizza box  
down on the bed as I go through my bag looking for my map. Locating  
it, I spread it out across the mattress and start looking for good-sized  
cities to the north of Chicago. I feel I can safely rule out anything  
north of the border, but there are still a great many places to choose  
from. Boston, New York, Cleveland, Detroit, Minneapolis... after that  
there's not much of anything sizeable to the north until you get to  
Fairbanks, and I suspect that would hardly even qualify as a town by  
Ray's way of thinking. Still, the field just narrowed considerably.  
        I think about the meager  
clues I have: Ray's comment to the used car salesman about wanting a  
vehicle with traction, and his joke about needing the calories for a  
move to a colder climate, though if he really is moving north it's not  
all that much of a joke. He has very little body fat and at times on  
the trail it was difficult for him to eat enough to stay warm. There's  
definitely a cohesive pattern there, and it narrows the field further  
in my mind. He wouldn't need good traction in New York City, because  
it's such a large metropolis that it has both a vast fleet of vehicles  
to clear the roads in winter and many alternate sources of transportation.  
The other choices still seem valid, though. The one thing that doesn't  
seem to fit my hypothesis is 'the twins.'  
        I know Ray has a niece  
and nephew, but they're not twins. In fact, I can't remember him ever  
speaking about twins at all. I have a momentary flash of jealousy once  
more at the idea that perhaps these twins are romantically involved with  
Ray as Sandor assumed. Why, if he wanted me, would he . . . no. I must  
stop doing that. I can't let Francesca's hints lead me to make untoward  
assumptions. Even if she and his parents are correct in their assertions  
about his sexuality, there's still no reason to assume that he might  
find me personally. . . .  
        Another deja vu takes  
me back three years, or nearly so. ' _Do you find me attractive?'_  
Good God. Even then? Had I missed it so far back? Had I been so busy  
hiding my own feelings that his didn't register at all? I have to admit  
it's more than possible, and I rub my forehead, feeling the beginnings  
of a headache forming.  
        I look at the map again,  
and keep finding my eyes drawn back to one particular spot. It makes  
no sense really, I have nothing logical or concrete on which to base  
my decision just have a . . . feeling. Instinct. But it seems to fit.  
The winters in Minneapolis are substantially longer and colder than here  
in Chicago, thanks primarily to the cold air masses that regularly drop  
down out of Canada, known colloquially as 'Alberta Clippers.' He would  
need a vehicle with good traction there, and he might also need a higher  
caloric intake to offset the cold. It's a relatively large city, so  
he'd feel at home. It fits.  
        I close my eyes, sending  
thanks to the universe at large for gifting me with a pizza-delivery  
person who has both a working knowledge of my quarry and a good memory  
for trivia. I have a place to look. I sit back and run a hand through  
my hair, debating whether or not to go back to the 27th and  
start researching. Diefenbaker whines pitifully, and I finally remember  
the pizza that's cooling under the map.  
        "Sorry," I  
tell him, and open the box, putting a couple of slices down on the plastic  
liner from the trash can. "Enjoy."  
        He's just settling in  
to eat when there's a rap at the door. Not having expected anyone else,  
I'm about to engage the security chain before opening the door when the  
person on the other side speaks.  
        "Fraser? It's Sandor."  
        If he's back, he must've  
thought of something else. I open the door to find him grinning. "I  
just remembered, Ray was watching a tape of a baseball game."  
        I don't see the relevance  
at first. "Yes, Ray does enjoy baseball, but I don't . . . ."  
        "Don't you get it?  
He said he was going to see the twins-- the Minnesota Twins. Minneapolis  
and St. Paul. That's north."  
        The last piece of the  
puzzle snaps neatly into place, confirming my hunch. "Yes. Of  
course. I should have thought of that."  
        "Me too," Sandor  
says. "You go find him, okay? Make sure he's not in trouble.  
I told Tony about you looking for Ray, and he said to tell you he's got  
connections in St. Paul, so if you need anything just call and let us  
know and we'll get you some help."  
        "I will, thank you.  
And give Tony my thanks as well." I hope I won't have to avail  
myself of Tony's connections, since I'm not sure an association with  
the Russian Mafia is an altogether healthy thing, but on the other hand,  
Ray never seemed to have any difficulties with having one.  
        Sandor nods. "You  
got it. Take care."  
        He strides off down the  
hall, and I close the door and latch it. I'm tired, but exhilarated,  
and I can't wait to get started on a real search. I grab my shirt and  
pull it on, looking at Dief. "Come on. I'm going back to the 27th.  
I have work to do."  
        He grumbles, eyeing the  
pizza box covetously. Just to save the argument I pick it up and take  
it with me, at which point he willingly follows me out.

* * *  


  
        By the time Lieutenant  
Welsh arrives the next morning I'm feeling much less optimistic. I've  
made no progress. Using an online white-pages first, and then checking  
with an actual operator I find that there are twenty-two listings for  
the name Kowalski in Minneapolis-- including, apparently, an upscale  
supermarket chain-- unfortunately none of the listings are for a Stanley  
Raymond, or any variation thereon. A check under the alternate spelling,  
Kowalsky yields no more success. Unfortunately all that tells me is  
that if he is there, either he has no telephone, or as I have already  
begun to suspect, he's not using his own name.  
        Since I previously determined  
that he's not using his credit cards, and no one has checked his credit  
references I'm even more convinced that he's using a pseudonym. I know  
he had undercover jobs prior to his time with me, and he has quite a  
lot of experience at developing an alternate persona, and at tracking  
people who have one. He knows how to create a paper trail that will  
pass the sort of inspection likely for any day-to-day transaction, such  
as opening a bank account or renting an apartment. That will make locating  
him more difficult, but not, I hope, impossible. The lieutenant comes  
over, coffee in hand, frowning a little.  
        "You been here all  
night, Fraser?"  
        "Not all night,"  
I say, and it's marginally true.  
        "Progress?"  
He squints at the computer screen.  
        "Yes sir, I believe  
so, though I'm not sure it will be helpful in the long run."  
        "What've you got?"  
he asks, pulling up a chair beside me.  
        "I believe that  
Ray may have gone to Minneapolis. I spoke with Sandor last night, and  
he told me. . . . "  
        "Hang on, Sandor  
the pizza guy?"  
        "Yes sir."  
        He nods sagely. He knows  
about Sandor. "Okay, go on."  
        "He happened to  
remember that Ray had mentioned that he was moving somewhere colder,  
and would be seeing 'the Twins.' When coupled with the fact that he  
told the gentleman at the car dealership that he needed a vehicle with  
better traction, it seems likely that his destination was Minneapolis."  
        "Yeah. He could  
probably find work there, I can check with the department there, see  
if he's applied for a job."  
        "I don't believe  
he would leave here just to go to work for a police force in another  
city."  
        "Hm. Good point.  
Okay, so what else is he good at?"  
        We look at each other  
for a moment, and I can see that we're both thinking the same thing.  
Like me, Ray has never been anything but an officer of the law. He's  
never had a chance to become 'good at' anything else. I know he's a  
competent armchair mechanic, but lacks the training necessary to make  
a living at it. He's a reasonably good cook, but again, not of the caliber  
needed to get a job. I shake my head and the lieutenant sighs.  
        "Nothing,"  
he says.  
        "Not that I can  
think of," I agree.  
        "Well, there's security.  
Night watch, that kind of thing," Welsh offers.  
        It's a good thought,  
or it seems so until I remember. "Except that I have some reason  
to think he may be using a pseudonym. And if he is, then it would be  
hard to get a firearms permit. That would take the sort of documentation  
that he had when he was posing as Ray Vecchio, and had the full cooperation  
of. . . ." My voice trails off as the lieutenant and I stare at  
each other. Without a word I turn and start to type a query into the  
computer as he lifts the phone and dials. As my search returns a single  
hit, I can hear the Lieutenant asking questions of someone in the records  
office. A moment later he hangs up and turns to me with a smile on his  
face.  
        "Guess who never  
turned in his old credentials? No one even thought to ask for them.  
And Sherri down in records says she got a hit on the alternate Vecchio  
file three weeks ago, someone from a licensing office in St. Paul, Minnesota.  
She covered, just like the file instructed her, and she logged it. It's  
not too unusual to get occasional hits on an old file like that, but  
this is too coincidental, sneaky bastard." His words are harsh,  
but his tone admiring. It's not an unusual combination where Ray is  
concerned.  
        "I agree that it  
seems coincidental. Especially since I found a new Minneapolis yellow-pages  
listing for 'Vecchio Investigations and Protective Agent Services, licensed  
by the state of Minnesota.'"  
        Welsh's smile turns into  
a grin. "We got him."  
        I feel myself smiling  
back, nearly as broadly. "Yes sir, I believe we do."  
        "Go get him, Fraser."  
        His words stir an odd  
echo of another time, another search. Of the end of one quest, and the  
beginning of another. How different would my life be right now had I  
followed my instincts back then, as Ray was always urging me to? Very,  
I suspect. I can't imagine where the consequences would have taken us,  
but I'm fairly certain now it wouldn't be here, without Ray, worried  
that I've permanently damaged something priceless.  
        I offer to let Diefenbaker  
stay in Chicago with Francesca or Elaine in order to spare him the indignity  
of a traveling crate, but he insists on accompanying me. I have a feeling  
that Ray will be licked within an inch of his life once we find him.  
Dief has never approved of the separation, and I've endured countless  
hours of sullen sulks in relation to my decision to return to Canada.  
I suppose that ought to have told me something, but I can be stubborn  
too.  
        There's an eleven-ten  
a.m. flight to Minneapolis on an aircraft large enough to handle an animal  
crate. The hour and a half-flight is uneventful, but even though I refrain  
from mentioning Diefenbaker's ancestry to the taxi-drivers at the airport  
it still takes several attempts before I find one willing to transport  
both of us. That driver, a large, good-natured Native man, takes one  
look at Dief and grins.  
        "There wolf in that  
dog?" he asks.  
        "Well, technically  
wolves and dogs are the same species," I hedge. "Genetically  
they are indistinguishable."  
        He chuckles. "Other  
cabbies turned you down, didn't they? Come on, get in. I like dogs.  
Wolves too."  
        Dief yips his approval  
as he gets in, and would probably lick the driver's ear if there weren't  
a plexiglass shield between them.  
        "Where to?"  
        I give him the location  
on Franklin that I garnered from the yellow pages, and he looks a little  
puzzled. "You sure about that address?"  
        "Yes, I believe  
so, why?"  
        He shrugs. "Just  
that Elliot Park isn't the best neighborhood. You watch yourself there,  
okay?"  
        I nod. "I'm not  
unused to marginal neighborhoods, but thank you kindly for the warning."  
        I wonder what would  
make Ray choose such a place to set up business. He's never been fond  
of low-rent districts. I wonder even more once we get there. The building  
is an old and rather shabby three story brick affair. I thank my driver  
and pay him, tipping more than the requisite percentage for his kindness  
in letting Diefenbaker share his cab, possibly against regulations.  
He asks if I want him to come back for me and I demur, since I have no  
idea how long I'll be here. At that he writes his cellular telephone  
number on a scrap of paper and insists that I call if I need him. It's  
quite refreshing to find such behavior in a large American city.  
        The interior of the building  
isn't quite as bad as the exterior. The floors are old scarred wood,  
but they're clean and well polished. All the lights are in working order,  
as is a drinking fountain, also clean. There's a small directory of  
businesses. The six offices on the first floor all appear to be occupied  
by lawyers. There's a bail bondsman on the second floor who has a three-room  
suite, and in a slightly strange juxtaposition the other three rooms  
are occupied by a family-planning agency. Ray's office is on the third  
floor, most of which is apparently vacant. There is only one other tenant,  
someone named Shoshanna Starchild. According to her listing, she's a  
therapist of some sort. The elevator reminds me of the one in my old  
apartment, an open-cage affair that I'm sure must give Ray the shudders.  
I suspect he uses the stairs.  
        To my disappointment,  
when I arrive Ray's office is dark and locked. A note on the door informs  
me that he is out on a case and asks visitors to call and leave a message  
which he will return as soon as he can. Apparently he has no receptionist.  
As I turn to leave, the door across the hallway opens and a tall, strong-looking  
middle-aged woman looks out. Her dark hair bears a single striking streak  
of gray through it, and her face is lined with smile-creases.  
        "Oh," she says,  
clearly disappointed. "Thought you were someone else."  
        "That's quite all  
right. Are you Ms. Starchild?"  
        "Yes." She  
frowns a little, puzzled. "You looking for me? I didn't think  
I had any appointments until two."  
        "No, ma'am. Actually,  
I was looking for Ra. . . Mr. Vecchio."  
        She smiles then, a spontaneous  
and warm expression. "So was I. I thought you might be him. You  
a customer?"  
        I shake my head. "No,  
we're old friends."  
        She looks at me more  
intently then. "Hmm," she says, cryptically.  
        "Hmm?" I ask.  
        She studies me for a  
moment, then shrugs. "Told me he didn't have any."  
That hurts, and it must show in my face because she suddenly looks sympathetic.  
"He probably just meant he didn't have any here in the Twin Cities."  
        I'm not so sanguine,  
but I appreciate her effort. "Probably," I say. "So  
you haven't seen him today?"  
        She shakes her head.  
"No. He was already gone when I got here at nine. I was kind of  
bummed, I made a coffee cake for him. I don't think he eats right."  
        I can't help but smile  
at that. "That's often true when he's busy on a case. So you met  
Ray when he moved into the office here?"  
        She shakes her head.  
"Oh, no. In fact, I'm the one who told him this place was available.  
No, I met Ray when he brought my son home from Chicago about six months  
ago. Mike was a runaway, Ray caught him shoplifting but didn't bust  
him. Took him out and fed him dinner, gave him one hell of a talking  
to, then drove him all the way back here when Mike said he wanted to  
come home and try to make a go of things."  
        I smile. "That  
sounds like Ray. He used to do community work with gang members back  
in Chicago."  
        She nods. "That's  
what he said."  
        "And how is your  
son doing?"  
        The smile she gives me  
could light the block. "Mike's back in high school, and he's got  
a part-time job at a coffee-house."  
        "I'm glad."  
        "Me too. What's  
your name?"  
        "Benton Fraser."  
        "Nice to meet you,  
Mr. Fraser. What's your friend's name?" she asks, looking at  
Dief.  
        "Diefenbaker."  
        "I've got some time  
to kill before my next appointment, you and Diefenbaker want some coffee  
cake?"  
        Diefenbaker whines pitifully,  
and after a moment's consideration I nod. "That would be very pleasant,  
thank you."  
        Her office is decorated  
in shades of purple, with suns, moons and stars stenciled up near the  
ceiling on the lavender walls. The air smells pleasantly of clary sage,  
which she tells me is stimulating to the mind. Her 'therapy' business  
is apparently aromatherapy. Over tea and a very good cinnamon-swirl  
coffee ring I sound her out further about her connection to Ray.  
        "You said you recommended  
this location to Ray?"  
        "Yeah. He'd call  
every week or so to see how Mike was getting along, and we'd get to talking.  
About a month ago I could tell something was bothering him, and finally  
he opened up, told me he was quitting the force and wasn't sure what  
he should do next. We talked for a long time, and I said he should try  
to do something where he could help kids, like he did for Mike. Next  
time he called he said he had an idea that maybe he could become an investigator  
and try to find runaways, but that he didn't want to stay in Chicago.  
I mentioned that we seem to get lot of runaways here, probably because  
for a big city it's pretty nice, and that's when he decided to give it  
a shot."  
        I find myself nodding,  
and feeling a strange, aching sense of relief that he'd found something  
that he was so ably suited for. Perhaps he didn't need me here, asking  
questions, stirring up unpleasant associations.  
        "Hey, you okay?"  
        I look up into Shoshanna's  
sympathetic brown eyes, and I can tell I've let my control slip once  
more. Instantly I slam the barriers back into place. "I. . . I'm  
fine, thank you. This is excellent coffee cake," I say, and Diefenbaker  
echoes the sentiment. "So, go on, that's when he decided to move  
here? How long ago was that?"  
        She eyes me for a moment  
longer, but doesn't pry. "Yeah, that's when he decided. That was  
about six weeks back. Had to go through all the crap to get his P.I.  
license, scraped up enough money to post that stupid bond and all that.  
But he did it, and then he was wondering where the hell he was going  
to set up shop when the escort service that used to have most of this  
floor got evicted and I told him about it. He went for it. Been here  
about three weeks. I've been sending some folks his way from the Parents  
of Runaways group I work with, and business is starting to pick up, but  
it's been rough. He's working nights somewhere to make ends meet. Not  
sure where, he hasn't said."  
        That gets my attention.  
"If he works nights, do you think he might have gone home to rest?"  
        She shoots me an odd  
look, and shakes her head slowly. "No, I don't think so."  
She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment. "Have you talked to  
Ray lately?"  
        That ache in my heart  
grows stronger. "No, I'm afraid not. We'd somewhat lost contact  
over the past few weeks. My fault," I say quietly. "Time  
just got away from me."  
        "That happens to  
the best of us," she says understandingly. "I'm sure he doesn't  
blame you. He's not the type to hold a grudge."  
        I think of Marcus Ellery  
and smile wanly. "Not in general, no." A quick glance at  
my watch tells me it's nearly two. "I should go, your appointment  
will be here shortly."  
        She glances at her clock  
and nods. "Yes, I'm sorry. I've enjoyed talking with you. Would  
you like to leave a note for Ray? I could give it to him when I see  
him. You could tell him where you're staying, leave a number."  
        I shake my head. "Thank  
you, but I haven't found a place to stay yet. It's always a challenge  
finding a place that will take Diefenbaker."  
        "Well, if you get  
desperate you might try the Fair Oaks, over on Third. They're kind of  
. . . well, I guess the word would be sleazy, but I can't imagine they'd  
object to a dog."  
        "Wolf."  
        She grins. "That  
either. In fact the only problem you'll have there is trying to keep  
some of the other customers from propositioning the both of you."  
        "Both of . . . ."  
I blink at her as that sinks in. "Good lord!"  
        She chuckles. "Like  
I said. Anyway, it's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Fraser, and I  
hope you manage to hook up with Ray."  
        So do I.  
        There's a bench in the  
hallway next to Ray's door and I settle there to wait, for as long as  
need be. Diefenbaker curls up beneath it. A few minutes later a handsome  
sixtyish woman steps out of the noisy elevator and eyes me a bit askance  
until I nod politely. She nods back and scurries past to disappear into  
Shoshanna's office. I realize that if I sit here all day I might make  
Shoshanna's clients nervous. I wouldn't want that.  
        I glance at Ray's door,  
my eyes drifting down to the lock. It's the same type we had at the  
consulate back in Chicago. The kind that Ray used to slip with a credit  
card. I don't have a credit card, but I do have a library card. I debate  
with myself. It is, technically, illegal. Just because I hope Ray won't  
mind doesn't mean it's legal. And I'm an officer of the law, even if  
I'm out of my jurisdiction. And it's wrong. But. . . . I feel Diefenbaker  
nudge my ankle and look down.  
        "I shouldn't,"  
I say firmly.  
        He whines.  
        "It's not legal."  
        He looks at me steadily.  
I sigh, reach into my pocket for my wallet, and take out my library card.  
"If it doesn't work the first time, it's a sign."  
        He gets to his feet and  
eyes the door expectantly. I look around, feeling like the vilest criminal,  
and slip the card between the tongue of the lock and the door. It slides  
back smoothly and the handle turns easily under my hand, the door opening  
with a slight squeak that makes me start guiltily. Dief butts in between  
me and the door and pushes into the office. With a last anxious glance  
down the hallway I follow him inside and close and lock the door behind  
us.  
        It's a fairly large office,  
with two big windows giving a view of the building across the alley.  
There's a coat-tree next to the door which holds a long, striped scarf  
and nothing else. Ray's desk occupies a good portion of the room, and  
his television and stereo are set up on a book-case. His couch sits  
against one wall, an afghan folded neatly over one arm. The steamer  
trunk he bought after our adventure to keep his arctic gear in is acting  
as an end table next to it. Those are all the furnishings Ray's former  
landlady said he took with him. That puzzles me. If they're here, what's  
he using for furnishings at his residence? Perhaps he's renting a furnished  
apartment?  
        An open door to my left  
reveals a small washroom containing a sink and toilet. Another door  
is, I assume, a closet. There are a few papers on his desk, but otherwise  
the office is quite neat. That in itself seems odd to me. I note that  
a coffee-maker and microwave are tucked into a little recess behind the  
bathroom door. All the comforts of home, it looks like. Suddenly I  
remember Shoshanna's face when I asked if Ray might have gone home to  
rest, and her reply, and something about that prompts me to open the  
closet door.  
        Not office supplies.  
Clothes. Not his entire wardrobe, to be sure, but definitely far more  
than a simple change of clothing. The top shelf of the closet holds  
a variety of canned foods, paper plates, plastic flatware and cups.  
I check his desk and find that the deep lower drawers hold not paperwork,  
but t-shirts, underwear, and socks. I sit down heavily in the chair  
at the desk. Good lord. Ray's _living_ here. In his office.  
        Diefenbaker senses my  
upset and comes over to put his nose under my palm reassuringly. I stroke  
him absently, something I rarely do, and look around the room. This  
is all Ray has left. He let everything else go. That's very . . . wrong.  
And as I think that, I know we're going to stay here until Ray comes  
back. At least I'm certain now that he'll come back here eventually.  
He has to. He has no place else to go.

* * *  


  
        If it wasn't so annoying  
it'd be funny. I came here to start over, clean slate. Trying to get  
a handle on who I am, what I want, and, even more important, to forget  
about the lives I've had and the people I can't have. Joke's on me though.  
My first mistake was getting lazy and using cover documents I already  
had handy to smooth out the paper trail. Sure, I know no one will be  
looking for this name, but even if some of the best times of my life  
were spent being Ray Vecchio it was a stupid move. You'd think I'd've  
learned by now that you can't go back again. And it sucks that every  
time I write a check or use my bank card I have to see that name, which  
automatically conjures up the one face I don't want to think about.  
        My second mistake was  
coming _here._ I think 'hey, it's not that far from home turf,  
things can't be too different, right?' I figure nobody here will remind  
me of people I don't want to be thinking about. But you know, the universe  
has a sick sense of humor and so here I am in a city of 2,872,109 (at  
last census) Benton Fraser clones. Okay, so knock off a few thou for  
the criminal lowlifes, every city's got some, and subtract the sixty  
or so percent who are women, but that's still a hell of a lot of Fraser  
clones. It's like the whole city belongs a few hundred miles north,  
across the border. I never knew Americans could act so . . . Canadian.  
Everyone here is so damn polite, so damn. . . orderly.  
        Okay, not quite everyone,  
I think, listening to the fight escalating in the back of the café  
between a white guy dressed up like a movie Indian, and a _real_  
Native guy in jeans and flannel. Seems he objects to his culture being  
coopted. Jesus, even the fights around here sound like Fraser. I look  
around for the cops who usually haunt booth number six but they must  
be out on a call. With a sigh I stand up and grab one brown wrist as  
the real guy lets fly at the fake guy. I manage to get them separated  
without too much trouble and shoo the fake guy out to find his way home  
before I sit back down to my cold, greasy eggs, burned toast, and tepid  
coffee. Hell, even I'm becoming a Fraser clone. It's enough to make  
a guy want to kick someone in the head.  
        The counterman comes  
over and slides me a fresh cup of fuel-oil. "Thanks, man. Hate  
cleaning up after fights. They always break stuff."  
        "Anytime. Hey,  
can I ask you a question?"  
        He nods, in a good mood  
since I've done him a favor.  
        "You seen this kid?"  
I ask, sliding a picture out of my pocket and handing it to him.  
        He takes it, squints  
at the girl in black with the pierced eyebrow. His eyes must be as bad  
as mine. After a second he looks at me. "You a cop?"  
        "Ex," I say.  
"Gave it up."  
        "Thought you had  
that vibe. Working private?"  
        "Giving it a shot.  
Not much business yet."  
        He makes a noncommittal  
noise. "What do you want with her?"  
        "Me? Nothing.  
But her mom's worried. Wants to know if she's okay."  
        "You gonna make  
her go home?"  
        "No. Not if she  
doesn't want to go. Just hired to deliver a message and see if she's  
okay."  
        "Oh." He looks  
at the picture some more. Finally he shakes his head. "Haven't  
seen her, but you should try the Hard Times Café, over on the  
West Bank. Lots of kids hang out there. They got great vegan cranberry-apple  
scones, too."  
        Scones? I eye the guy,  
a burly, biker-type, trying not to look surprised. He does not look  
like a connoisseur of vegan scones. Just goes to show you can't judge  
a book by its cover, as . . . someone . . . would say. "Thanks.  
I'll give it a shot."  
        He nods and turns away,  
then looks back at me with that look people get when they're trying to  
remember where they know you from. I don't recognize him, but then,  
for only having been here a few weeks I've met an awful lot of people.  
Suddenly he snaps his fingers and comes back over, leaning down confidentially.  
        "Haven't I seen  
you at the Metro?"  
        I can feel myself turning  
red, which is stupid. I work there, why shouldn't I be there? But .  
. . that's not the only reason I'm there, and isn't this why I moved  
here? So I could be who I am without worrying about it? So instead  
of scrambling to cover my ass by explaining, like I would back in Chicago,  
I just duck my head and nod. "Yeah."  
        He grins. "Thought  
so. Guess that explains why you're an _ex_ -cop," he says with  
a sympathetic look.  
         I smile back weakly.  
"Well, it's one reason, anyway."  
        He nods and gives me  
a thumb's up before heading down to see what the hooker at the other  
end of the counter wants. I'm still a little boggled. If he goes to  
the Metro, then odds are good that apples and cranberries aren't the  
only fruit he's into. I wonder if I'm allowed to think things like that  
now, or if it's still offensive. I look at my plate and my throat kind  
of closes up at the idea of gagging down cold eggs, and besides it's  
my third breakfast today. Counter-help are usually more willing to talk  
to you if you order something, and eggs are the least expensive thing  
on any menu. I eat the bacon and mess the eggs up a little so it doesn't  
look like I didn't touch them, and head off to the West Bank to check  
out the place he told me about.  
        It was a good call.  
There are a lot of kids there, and a lot of them look hungry enough to  
be homeless, with that slightly unwashed look that I get myself when  
I haven't had time to hit the Y for a couple of days. I was there last  
night though, so I'm pretty decent for now. I order a cup of coffee  
and sit at a table drinking it. It's a lot better than the stuff at  
the last place. I may have to come here again. Besides, in my new line  
of work it's a good idea to hang out where my customers do.  
        I put on my glasses and  
get my book out of my pocket to cover the fact that I'm occasionally  
looking up to scan faces. After about forty-five minutes of reading  
Jack London, sipping a second cup of coffee, and eating a scone that's  
as good as the guy at the other place said, two kids come into the café,  
a boy and a girl. I hide a smile. Bingo. Hair's a different color  
but the rest is pretty much the same. Still all in black, eyebrow still  
ringed. Looks a little thinner than in the picture, but that comes with  
the irregular meals part of being on the streets.  
        I go over her stats in  
my head. Tara MacLaughlin, seventeen, from Fargo, North Dakota. Compared  
to there, the weather here must seem like summer. Okay, well, fall at  
least. Ran away three months ago, no contact since. Not too surprising,  
all things considered. The boy isn't anyone I know. He looks about the  
same age as Tara, but I can tell he's been on the street longer. He's  
brown-skinned, rail-thin and wary, but he's kind of protective and it's  
sort of sweet. I wait until the kids have found a table not far from  
mine and put in their order before I get up and go over to them. They  
look up, hostile. I'm an adult, they don't trust me on sight. I go  
for charming.  
        "Hi, I'm Ray."  
        "We don't want any,"  
the boy snaps.  
        "Any what?"  
        "Whatever you're  
selling."  
        "Not selling anything."  
        "We're not interested  
in going to your church, either."  
        I grin. "That's  
good, since I don't have one. People got this strange prejudice against  
human sacrifice these days."  
        That shuts them up.  
They don't know whether to be amused or scared. "Let me start over.  
I'm Ray. I'm a P.I. And you're Tara MacLaughlin. Settle down,"  
I add as she shoves her chair back and her friend leaps up, fists clenched.  
"I'm not here to run you in. Just here to deliver a letter from  
your mom, okay?"  
        She's half out of her  
chair, but after I don't make a move toward her she looks at the boy.  
"Jake?"  
        He looks at me. "Private?  
Not a cop?"  
        I shake my head. "Used  
to be a cop, gave it up. It was bad for my health."  
        "You won't report  
us?"  
        I shake my head. "Not  
unless you give me a reason to."  
        He stares into my eyes  
and I meet his dark gaze openly. After a moment he seems satisfied.  
"Okay. You got three minutes. Talk."  
        I shrug. "Don't  
need to talk, just to give your friend a letter." I get it out  
of my pocket. It's a little worse for wear after me carrying it around  
in there for the better part of two weeks. I hand it over along with  
one of the business cards that Shanna made up for me on her laser printer.  
"That's it. Oh, and that's my card if you want to get in touch  
after you read it. I can take a statement and send it to your mom if  
that's what you decide to do. I don't have a cell, so if you want me  
leave a message on my voicemail and I'll meet you somewhere. I check  
it regularly. Have a nice day."  
        With that I go back to  
my table, pick up my book, and settle in again. I pretend not to notice  
them watching me as I read my book and drink my coffee. I don't want  
to make them miss their meal. They managed, somewhere, to scrape up  
money for food and I know if I leave they'll bolt because they'll think  
I went to call the cops. After they decide I'm not going anywhere they  
talk, low-voiced for a moment or two, then Tara opens the envelope, pulls  
out the letter, and starts to read. I hear a startled "Oh my God!"  
after a few seconds, followed by the unmistakable sound of crying. I  
glance up over the edge of my book and see that Jake has her in his arms,  
patting her hair, calming her. She's sniffling and wiping her eyes,  
still trying to read.  
        I know what it says.  
Her mother told me. She was crying too. It's an ugly case, but then  
a lot of runaway cases are. The mom worked nights and didn't know anything  
was wrong until Tara ran away, left her a note saying why. Her letter  
tells Tara she's in the process of divorcing Tara's stepdad, and she  
wants to press charges for the stuff he did to Tara, but without Tara  
as a witness she can't really. She can't even confront him about it  
because she doesn't want to tip him off that she knows because he might  
run.  
        I don't want Tara to  
feel pressured by my being here waiting so I leave enough money to cover  
my check and a baseline tip, and head out, with a nod to the boy to make  
sure he knows I'm cool. It's about time to start my shift at the club.  
I'm a little scrawny for a bouncer, but my cop training makes up for  
it. Well, that, and the fact that I feel guilty just using my YMCA membership  
for the showers, so I usually spend a little time working out before  
I un-grunge. Can't afford a place to work and a place to live so I'm  
sleeping in my office, and the bathroom facilities are minimal. Hopefully  
the landlord won't notice before I can make enough money to get an apartment  
too.  
        The only problem with  
the Y is that the cruising can get a little intense. I always thought  
that was just a seventies joke, but it isn't. In fact it's even worse  
than the club, and that's saying something. I guess if you're in the  
market then the showers are a nice display window. So far nothing's  
interested me, which makes me keep wondering if I flushed my relationship  
with my folks down the john for no reason at all. Maybe I'm not gay.  
Maybe I'm just off my rocker. Probably. Thirty-seven years old and  
ditching my career and what's left of my family because I'm out of my  
mind. Yeah, that sounds like me.  
        With that thought in  
mind I'm kind of morose when I walk into the club. It's about an eight  
hour shift, five to however long it takes to get everyone out after we  
close at one, and tonight I'm almost disappointed that no one gives me  
any trouble. Like anyone ever has, except for a couple of underage kids  
trying to get in. I think they only hired me because I looked hungry.  
They need a bouncer like I need a hole in my head.  
        There's a guy keeps wandering  
in and out tonight. After the third time I check his hand for the stamp  
I start watching him, and realize that he's watching me. He's a little  
taller than me, a lot broader, almost on the verge of plump, with dark  
hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. Yeah, so I have a type. Except for  
the discreet diamond stud in one earlobe. In spite of myself I try picturing  
Fraser with an earring and it makes me chuckle out loud.  
        So I watch the guy and  
he watches me as the night crawls on toward morning. The music gets  
under my skin sometimes and I find myself sort of dancing in place, because  
I need to stay at the door but I have to move. When I look up and find  
his eyes on me I stop immediately, but it's clear he's interested. I  
feel panicked for a second and then I push it down ruthlessly. Okay,  
you've got to do this sometime, Kowalski. Take the plunge. I look at  
him, meeting his eyes, and he smiles and nods, then heads back to the  
dance floor.  
        He's a pretty good dancer,  
not as good as me, but not bad. He dances with a few different guys,  
every one of them skinny and some variety of blond. Guess I'm not the  
only one with a type. A little before closing he meanders over near  
where I am, and stops, jerks his head in the direction of the dance floor.  
"Nice club."  
        I nod. "Yeah.  
Too nice."  
        He laughs at that, getting  
it. "Kind of a dull night?"  
        "That's about the  
size of it."  
        His eyes slide down to  
my crotch and I wonder if I just accidentally made a come-on. He looks  
back up at me and grins. Thank God it's dark in here, because I don't  
think blushing is a real smooth response.  
        "So, do you just  
work here, or do you come here to play, too?" he asks.  
        He has a kind of raspy  
voice, with a way of rounding his vowels that pushes my buttons. And  
he's definitely asking what I think he's asking. I clear my throat.  
"So far just work."  
        "Feel like changing  
that?"  
        I shake my head. "Can't.  
On duty."  
        He looks disappointed  
for a second and then smiles again. "So how about once you're off  
duty?"  
        My mouth is bone dry.  
"Well, kinda hard to play when the club's closed."  
        He grins. "Depends  
on what you want to play."  
        I can't help but grin  
back, it's such a line. "I like to play pool."  
        "How about. . .  
poker?"  
        That sounds like something  
I might say on a bad night. "I like card games," I say carefully.  
        "Want to play some  
two-handed stud?" he says, lifting an eyebrow.  
        That one makes me laugh  
out loud, and he chuckles too. "I don't know that one," I  
say, hoping he gets the double meaning.  
        "I can teach you,"  
he comes back.  
        Yeah, he got it. Okay,  
there it is Ray, the bid's down, ante up or fold. Mouth is dry again,  
and my palms are sweaty, and my heart's racing like the guy's got a gun  
on me. "I'll try anything."  
        His smile gets big and  
he puts out his hand, a big paw. "I'm Frank."  
        "Ray," I say,  
wiping my hand covertly on my jeans before we shake.  
        "Nice to meet you,  
Ray. So, your place or mine?"  
        Swallow, swallow again.  
There. Moisture. "Gotta be yours, sorry."  
        He nods sympathetically.  
"Roommates, eh? No problem." He looks at his watch. "So,  
the place closes in what, twenty minutes? Meet you out front in half  
an hour or so."  
        I nod, and he heads back  
to the dance floor. Now I know I've lost my mind. Completely. Totally.  
Irreversibly. I spend the next twenty minutes terrified, trying to  
think of a way to say 'thanks but no thanks' and at the same time wondering  
why anyone would want to pick up someone who's obviously clueless about  
the whole deal.  
        I keep thinking about  
the fact that he's bigger than me and wondering if I could get away if  
I needed to. Then I realize that's a pretty stupid thing to think, because  
I am a cop, or I was, and I could probably stop him in my sleep if I  
had to. Don't be paranoid, Kowalski, he just wants to have fun. Just  
like you should. You remember fun. It's that thing that feels good.  
Been so long I forgot how.  
        Last call's gone out,  
and the crowd is already heading home, trickling out nice and orderly.  
Shit. There it is again. Orderly. I have got to find a new word.  
About twenty after one, when the club is finally empty, I check in with  
management, sort of half-hoping they need me for something, but they  
don't, so I get my coat, take a deep breath, and head out to meet my  
fate. Or Frank. Same thing.  
        He's standing outside  
the club, facing away from me, smoking a cigarette, wearing a Navy peacoat  
that reminds me way too much of Fraser. Damn it, I can't do this. I  
open my mouth to tell him that when he turns, sees me, and smiles big.  
        "Hey there! I have  
to admit I'm surprised. I kind of figured you'd scram out the back way."  
        Fuck. The excuses die  
unspoken. I may be a fag but I'm not a coward. I know I'm leaking attitude  
all over when I lift my chin and ask, "Where to?"  
        He doesn't back off.  
In fact, he looks approving. "I'm staying at the Hyatt downtown.  
You want to meet me there?"  
        He's smooth. Giving  
me another out, and also making me feel comfortable by making sure I'm  
not dependent on him for a ride. The Hyatt, hunh? Upscale. He's not  
likely to be an axe-murderer if he's staying there. Yeah, that's a stereotype  
but when's the last time anyone ever heard of a murder at a Hyatt? And  
he's an out-of-towner. That makes it easier somehow. I nod. "Yeah,  
I can do that."  
        He grins. "Cool.  
Room nine-fourteen. See you there."  
        He strides off toward  
the parking lot. I'm the other direction, around behind the club, so  
I head that way. Spend about five minutes arguing with myself about  
whether or not I should go and thinking about the stupid condoms I stupidly  
bought over a year ago in a moment of stupidly hopeful anticipation that  
are, stupidly, packed in a box in my office. Duh.  
        Okay, think. There's  
a supermarket on the way, they always have stuff. It's a detour, though,  
more time to change my mind. No. I need to do this. I have to know.  
I go in the store, get what I need, it takes about five minutes this  
time of night, and the checker smirks at me. He probably thinks I'm  
gonna get lucky. Well, I guess in a way he's right. No, he's definitely  
right. I'm just not used to thinking of 'getting lucky' without a female-type  
person involved.  
        No one bats an eye as  
I walk into the gleaming hotel lobby and across to the elevator. Guess  
I shouldn't be too surprised. Cashmere has a way of saying 'I belong'  
in places like this-- if they don't pay attention to the jeans and biker  
boots underneath. Stella bought the coat for me years ago. My taste  
runs to leather bomber-jackets and beat-up windbreakers, but I've been  
wearing the cashmere a lot here-- the wool and the length are just what  
Minneapolis winters call for, and it hides a multitude of sartorial sins.  
        The elevator arrives  
and I get in, the only person riding it at this hour. It's after two  
now. By the time any. . .anything happens it'll be three a.m. The  
time that most alien abductions occur. I read that once somewhere, probably  
the National Enquirer at the supermarket. I feel like I've been abducted  
by an alien right now. Or maybe possessed by one. And I snicker to  
myself thinking about all those stories of what the aliens do to you,  
and how appropriate is _that_ right now? I push every button between  
one and nine so the elevator stops on each floor and tries to let me  
out. On seven I almost bolt, but then I remember that _'thought you'd  
scram out the back'_ comment and don't.  
        Nine. Deep breath.  
Out the door, down the hall, quick glance at room numbers to make sure  
I'm heading the right direction. Yeah. Four, six, eight, ten, twelve  
. . . fourteen. Target acquired. It takes me two minutes to lift a  
hand and knock. Door opens just fast enough that I know Frank was waiting  
impatiently. He grins and steps aside to let me in.  
        "Hey, glad you came,  
Ray. Want a drink? I have some scotch."  
        Drink. Yeah. Good idea.  
I nod and he picks up a bottle off the desk and peels off the paper tape  
across the top. "Duty free," he comments as he twists the  
bottle open and pours some into two glasses. He doesn't ask if I want  
it neat, rocks, or watered, just pours. He holds one glass out to me  
and takes the other himself. We drink. The burn of the liquor feels  
good, makes me shiver.  
        "Cold?" he  
asks, concerned. " I can turn up the heat."  
        I shake my head. "Nah,  
I'm good. Just the outdoors to the inside, you know."  
        He nods. "Yeah.  
Can I take your coat?"  
        I look at him and grin  
a little. "I think I can do it," I say, taking the hint.  
I put down my drink and slide out of my coat and hang it in the little  
closet-thingy by the bathroom. I finally notice that he's got music  
on, some sort of euro-techno-dance stuff, not bad. It's got a good beat,  
you can dance to it. While I'm hanging up my coat Frank moves to stand  
behind me. His hands come to rest on my hips and I try not to jump in  
surprise.  
        "You want to dance?"  
he asks, close to my ear. "You were moving pretty good tonight."  
        My hackles go up kind  
of automatically. Not used to having someone, another guy someone, in  
my space like this. I almost shiver again, cover it with a nod. "Sure."  
        He backs off so I can  
turn around. It's awkward for a few seconds, but dancing is dancing  
and my body remembers what to do so it gets easier fast. Not much room,  
we have to be close, and he reaches to pull me even closer. My pulse  
jumps and I lose the rhythm, slow, stop. His fingers come up to my face,  
turn me a little, and then his mouth is on mine. He tastes like scotch  
and tobacco, and I think of that eighth-grade health class poster about  
how kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray. It was right, but wrong  
too. Wrong. His mouth moves, trying to get me to respond, his tongue  
flickers against my lips.  
        The words 'duty-free'  
suddenly sink in, and I think about those rounded vowels of his, and  
. . . shit. Of course. I wrench away, almost panting. "You're  
Canadian!" I say. It comes out like it's a dirty word.  
        He looks puzzled and  
a little annoyed. "Yeah, so?"  
        I shake my head. "I'm  
sorry. I can't do this, I can't, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, but I  
can't. I just can't."  
        He backs off, hands spread.  
"Hey, it's okay. Settle down, man. You don't want to do anything,  
that's fine." He picks up my glass from where he put it, holds it  
out. "Have a drink. You look like you could use it."  
        I take it kind of automatically,  
gulp a mouthful of smoky heat while he locates his glass and sips. After  
a couple of seconds of awkward silence he speaks.  
        "So. . . you got  
something against Canadians?"  
        I almost choke on my  
drink, and shake my head. "No. No, I l . . . like Canadians."  
        "Oh. I get it.  
Ex-boyfriend?"  
        I snort. "Not hardly.  
No, just a friend." My voice sounds all wistful and I hate that.  
        His eyes get knowing  
all of the sudden. "Oh. That's rough." He pauses, sips,  
then looks at me speculatively. "You're . . . kind of new at this."  
        I lean back against the  
wall and nod. "Yeah. You could say that."  
        "Kind of a late  
start," he says, living up to his name.  
        "You could say that  
too," I agree.  
        "Why'd you come?  
You could've just gone home."  
        I sigh and finish off  
my drink. He lifts the bottle and his eyebrows. I nod and he pours  
me another shot, then tops off his own glass.  
        "I needed to know,"  
I say, finally. "Or thought I did." I look at him, and my  
curiosity gets the better of me. "Why'd you pick me? You knew  
I was a total tenderfoot, didn't you?"  
        He grins and shrugs.  
"Thrill of the chase. Well, that and you're pretty fucking hot."  
        Damn. I'm blushing like  
a virgin at that. 'Course, I sort of am one, I guess. At this anyway.  
He doesn't seem to notice, just goes on.  
        "I just like first  
timers. It's kind of a kink for me, I guess. I like the challenge."  
        "Makes as much sense  
as anything," I say.  
        "Yeah. The mind's  
a strange place. So, this friend of yours, he's Canadian?"  
        I nod. "Yeah.  
He's a Mountie," I say, I can't seem to stop myself. Frank whistles.  
        "You like a challenge  
too, eh?"  
        I laugh at that, and  
nod. "Guess so."  
        "Straight?"  
        "As a die. Whatever  
the hell that means."  
        "You seem pretty  
sure."  
        I sigh. "Yeah.  
I am now. I wasn't always sure. I mean, for a while I really thought.  
. . I mean, we were partners for over a year, spent six months after  
that on a dogsled in the Territories looking for fucking Franklin's hand,  
and doesn't it just figure it was some English guy who lost it?"  
I ask, and he grins and nods as I continue. "Anyway, more than  
once on that trip I was sure we were just working our way up to it, but  
it never happened."  
        "Well, the circumstances  
don't really seem very conducive," Frank says, sitting down on the  
edge of the bed, and nodding at the chair by the desk.  
        I pull it out and sit  
down too as I grin and shake my head. "Hell no. Didn't dare take  
your clothes off, for one thing."  
        "No, I'd imagine  
not. So, what happened?"  
        I'm not sure why I'm  
telling him this, but it's kind of nice to tell someone, even if he is  
a total stranger off the street. "I don't know. We finally get  
back to civilization, still partners, friends, hell, we do everything  
but live together. I mean, people were starting to talk about us and  
we hadn't even done anything. Things got kind of strange toward the  
end, it was like we got to this point where sometimes when we were hanging  
out we'd end up just looking at each other, and not talking, and two  
or three times it was so fucking close. . . like if I turned my head  
or he leaned forward it would just happen, completely normal. But it  
didn't and the next thing I know, bam, he takes off, goes home."  
        Frank looks thoughtful  
and sips his drink. I sip mine too, throat's a little dry after all  
that yakking.  
        "So, what's he like,  
your friend?"  
        "Fraser? He's.  
. . perfect. Well, annoying as hell, but that's mostly because he's  
perfect, and sometimes that gets kind of old, you know?"  
        He nods like he understands,  
even though I know he can't possibly. No one can, unless they've actually  
met Fraser. "Perfect, you mean looks?"  
        There, see? I knew he  
didn't get it. I shake my head. "Nah, though that too. Looks  
like Superman or something. You would not believe how women act around  
him, and he's like. . . oblivious. That's howcome I thought maybe I  
had a shot, but. . . no, just me jumping to conclusions. No, he's perfect  
all over. Speaks eight languages or something like that, knows all the  
great books and theories and stuff. Never makes mistakes, always knows  
just what to say, what to do, once he got us out of a sinking ship with  
a couple of fire-extinguishers and some fire hose. I swear he must be  
related to that MacGuyver guy on TV. Only time he ever screwed up that  
I can remember he got the snot beat out of him and still ended up getting  
his way in the end. Like I said, perfect."  
        Frank frowns. "That  
sounds very stressful."  
        "It can be, believe  
me."  
        "I mean for him.  
It must be hard to live up to that kind of reputation, those expectations.  
I would imagine it could become extremely difficult to maintain."  
        I stare at him for a  
minute, and my jaw drops. I can't believe I never thought of that.  
        Frank looks at me and  
smiles. "You know, I really don't think you're gay."  
        "I'm not?"  
I ask, still a little stunned from his last punch, wondering why if I'm  
not gay do I want to Do Things With Fraser? He shakes his head.  
        "No, you're just  
in love."  
        "With a guy,"  
I point out.  
        "Yes."  
        "So that means I'm  
gay."  
        "No, it means you're  
in love with someone and their gender is irrelevant. It means you've  
overcome all the conditioning that tells you that it matters whether  
the person you love has a penis or a pussy, and that's not an easy thing.  
But no, you're not gay. Bisexual probably, omnisexual, whatever word  
you prefer. All it means is that for you the internal is more important  
than the external."  
        "But, I want to.  
. . um. . . . you know. With him."  
        He chuckles. "But  
you don't with me, do you?"  
        Okay, he's right about  
that one. "It's nothing personal," I say apologetically.  
        He nods. "Exactly."  
        "Hunh?"  
        "For you it needs  
to be personal. Some people are cut out for meaningless sex, me for  
example. I love it. But some people aren't. You seem to be one of  
those. You need to have an emotional connection before you can have  
a sexual one. I'm not saying this guy is the only guy who'll ever interest  
you, just that he's the one you feel things for right now and that's  
important to you. Have you ever had meaningless sex?"  
        "That's kind of  
private."  
        He nods. "Yeah.  
So?"  
        Another point. He could  
get to be as irritating as Fraser. "A couple of times."  
        "Did you enjoy it?"  
        "Um, sort of. I  
mean, it felt good, but . . . ." Okay. So I'm dense. I'm starting  
to get it now. I shoot him a look I know is on the irritated side.  
"You ever think about becoming a shrink?"  
        He snorts. "I'd  
better have, seeing as how that's my profession."  
        I groan and put my head  
in my hands. "Fuck. Leave it to me to get picked up by a gay Canadian  
psychotherapist." I get out my wallet and start looking through  
it. "What do I owe you?"  
        That makes him laugh  
out loud, shaking his head. "Cute, but it's my own fault. I never  
can resist a good analysis." He looks at his watch, and sighs.  
"I should probably try to get some sleep so I can pay attention  
to my conference tomorrow."  
        I can take a hint. "Yeah,  
I should be heading out." I put my drink down and stand up, holding  
out my hand. "It's been real, Frank."  
        "Yes, it has, Ray.  
If you're ever in Saskatoon, look me up, we'll go out for a drink."  
        "Just ask for Frank  
the Shrink?"  
        He chuckles and digs  
in his pocket, hands me a card.  
        I read it. Frank Kannippen.  
"Jeez, and I thought Kowalski was bad."  
        "Yeah, but hey,  
everyone needs something to be neurotic about, right? Are you okay to  
drive, Mr. Kowalski?"  
        God, it feels good to  
hear my own name. I forgot about that part of using someone else's.  
I grin, and nod. "Yeah, Mr. Kannippen. It'd take more than two  
fingers of Scotch to put me over the limit, but thanks for asking. You  
take care."  
        He nods and I leave.  
As I drive I mull over some of the things Frank said. Especially that  
stuff about Fraser, and how it'd be hard to be like that. I feel kind  
of bad that that never occurred to me. I always thought he was just  
kind of made that way, but what if he thought he _had_ to be, even  
with me? That makes me kind of sad. What the hell kind of friend am  
I, that it never occurred to me that maybe he didn't want to be doing  
all that shit? Jesus Christ, no wonder Fraser went home.  
        Maybe it had nothing  
to do with him figuring out I was hot for him. Maybe he was just tired  
of having to carry that load. And I could've helped, and I didn't, because  
I was too busy thinking of myself. Guess I can't blame him for wanting  
to cut the ties. As I pull into the parking lot outside my building  
I sigh, shaking my head. "Sorry, Frase."  
        Get out of the car and  
shiver a little. I'm tired, and it's really late, and I've been up forever.  
When you've got that working against you even cashmere doesn't block  
the cold. Unlock the front door, close it, trudge halfway up the first  
flight of stairs before realizing I forgot to lock it. With a sigh I  
go back down and do that, then head up again. I still can't bring myself  
to use the elevator. I can sleep hanging off the side of a mountain  
in a hammock, but I can't use an open-cage elevator thanks to my third-grade  
teacher who when we were on a field trip told us a horrible story about  
a kid who stuck his fingers through the mesh of one and lost them on  
the way up. I'm a grownup now and I figure she was just trying to keep  
us all safe, not instill a lifelong phobia, but there you go.  
        After being on my feet  
most of the night they really don't want to lift for the stairs though,  
and I stumble as I get to the third floor, nearly fall flat on my face.  
Catch myself on both hands, swear, and push up again, digging for my  
keys. God, I'm tired. All I want to do is get my shoes off, stretch  
out on the couch, and die. Fumble the key into the lock, get the door  
open and I'm home. I don't bother to turn on the light, I'm not going  
to be awake long enough to need it.  
        I'm working the buttons  
on my coat when it hits me. Something's off. Wrong. Some shadow, some  
noise, some smell. I back toward the door, one hand automatically reaching  
for the gun that's. . . not there. Shit. Forgot I don't carry one  
as a rule any more. Okay, what the hell can I use for a weapon? The  
only thing handy is the coat-tree. Great. I'm going to undress someone  
to death. I grab it anyway and snap the light on at the same time.  
        "Okay buddy, hold  
it ri . . . . " My voice trails off and I stare into familiar blue  
eyes as Fraser stands up from where he was sitting on my couch.  
        "Hello, Ray."  
        I'm hallucinating. I  
think that for all of a tenth of a second before I'm hit by about seventy  
pounds of excited wolf. The coat tree falls with a loud crash, and  
I follow it a moment later since Diefenbaker has both front paws on my  
chest and I wasn't well balanced. My head hits the floor and I see stars  
while my face gets covered in wolf-slobber.  
        "Diefenbaker, get  
down!" I hear Fraser order uselessly. He forgets the damned wolf  
is deaf more often than I do.  
        I manage to get my hands  
up enough to push Dief away a couple of inches and grab his muzzle.  
"Get. Off. Me!" I enunciate into his face.  
        He looks put out, but  
he does it. I sit up, rubbing the knot on the back of my head, feeling  
a strange combination of pissed off and elated. "Fraser! You scared  
the crap out of me! What the hell are you doing here? How'd you get  
in here?"  
        Fraser bites his lip  
and reaches into his pocket to display a rectangular piece of plastic.  
I can't read the tiny lettering on it, but it's not a credit card, not  
that it matters. I know what he's telling me. I just can't believe  
he did it. I shake my head sadly. "How the mighty have fallen."  
        "I'm sorry, Ray,"  
he says, and his voice sounds funny, like he's apologizing for something  
a lot bigger than breaking and entering.  
        I wave a hand. "Help  
me up, I need to wash my face now."  
        He smiles a little and  
comes over to give me a pull up to my feet. "Diefenbaker has been  
quite anxious to find you."  
        Uh hunh, I think, disbelieving,  
as I head into the bathroom. The wolf is the driving force behind this  
little expedition. Right. I know better. I know Fraser. He's always  
blaming Dief for stuff he wants to do but can't admit to. But I have  
to say I'm surprised, first that he'd come looking to begin with, second  
that he actually found me. Still, we are talking Fraser, after all.  
        I finish up in the bathroom,  
dry my face and hands, and steel myself for the conversation. Just what  
I need when I'm about half-dead. A Fraser Conversation. I have a feeling  
I know what it's going to be about too. I'm going to get the 'tuck their  
kids in at night' speech. He's going to try to talk me into going back  
to the 27th. Well, he's got another think coming if he  
thinks that's gonna work this time.  
        "So," I say,  
taking a seat at one end of the couch, idly fondling Dief's ears when  
he puts his chin on my thigh. "You got my letter."  
        He nods. "I did."  
        I grin. "Bet you  
didn't think I could write."  
        He looks at me a little  
oddly. "Of course I knew you could write, Ray. I'm just sorry  
you had to."  
        Not the reaction I expected.  
Not sure what he means. "So, you pissed at me now?"  
        He shakes his head.  
"No. While I may regret the outcome, I respect your integrity in  
making the choices you made."  
        Hm. Not quite sure about  
that either, but it kind of sounds like he's saying he's . . . proud  
of me? Wait, he said choices. Not choice. He's not just talking about  
me quitting the force. And if he found me that means he was asking questions.  
And he probably talked to my folks. And he's got this kind of strange  
look on his face. Oh, I am so fucked here. I so do not want to hear  
how he's proud of me for coming out. I can't take that plastic-smile-  
while-keeping-a-safe-distance. Not from Fraser. So I cover.  
        "What do you want,  
Fraser? I've worked twenty hours straight, on my feet for the last eight.  
I'm tired." It sounds surly and ungrateful, just like I intended  
it to.  
        For a moment an expression  
I've never seen before flashes across his face. He looks for all the  
world like someone just knifed him right in the gut. But it's gone before  
I can even blink, and he's serene again. "I'd like to tell you  
a story, Ray."  
        Jesus. He hunted me  
up to tell me a story? "This an Inuit story?"  
        "No. It's a Benton  
Fraser story."  
        I guess if he came all  
this way, the least I can do is listen. "Oh. Okay. Shoot."  
        He looks at my desk chair,  
lifts his eyebrows.  
        "Of course you can  
sit, Fraser. You could even sit on the couch," I say, risking  
having him sit on the chair anyway, or worse, all scrunched up against  
the far arm of the couch. But he does neither. He nods, and comes to  
sit beside me on the couch. Right beside me. Close. I can smell him.  
He's got that 'haven't showered in a couple of days' scent I learned  
on the trail. And this near I can see he's got a lot of stubble, at  
least for him.  
        No shave, no shower?  
Something bad must've happened. I have a moment of panic that something's  
happened to Welsh or Frannie. They're the ones I'd miss. Weirdly, my  
next thought is my folks, even after everything. But no, he said it  
was a Benton Fraser story. Lord, is he in trouble with the brass again?  
Who'd he peach on this time? He seems to be having trouble starting,  
so I prompt him a little.  
        "So, Benton Fraser  
story?"  
        He nods, staring down  
at his hands where they droop between his knees. "Yes. I. . .  
forgive me, this is difficult. Do you mind if I resort to a storytelling  
convention?"  
        "A convention?"  
I ask in mock surprise, pretending I don't know what he means. "With  
or without hookers?"  
        He smiles at that, but  
doesn't answer. Not that I expected him to. He takes a deep breath.  
"So, once upon a time there were two men. Circumstances beyond  
the control of either forced them to work together, but they found that  
they . . . clicked. In a surprisingly short time, considering the habitual  
reserve of one of the two men, they became friends as well as partners."  
        There's a tension in  
my midriff as I listen. It's not just a Benton Fraser story, I can tell.  
But I said he could talk, so I let him keep going.  
        "There were some  
trying times now and then, and falling outs, as will happen between friends,  
but they always managed to overcome those and grew ever closer. One  
might even say they were best friends. Not only did they work together,  
they spent much of their free time together, in pursuits they both enjoyed.  
Even after the circumstances which had thrown them together to begin  
with were resolved and there was no need to remain so close, they chose  
to do so. And somewhere along the line one of the men came to realize  
that his feelings toward his friend had changed. Deepened. Unfortunately  
in a way that is not generally deemed socially acceptable."  
        "Fraser," I  
start to say, but he cuts me off with an upheld hand.  
        "Let me finish,  
please, Ray."  
        I nod, swallowing the  
bitterness at the back of my throat. I guess he needs to lay it out.  
He always did like doing that exposition thing. He goes on, staring  
at his hands again.  
        "Because of his  
fear that his friend would find out this thing about him and be repulsed,  
it became more and more difficult for this man to be around his friend,  
and their relationship grew strained. Eventually the man decided it  
would be best for all concerned if he went away, and he did so, without  
ever telling his friend the reason for his actions, without telling anyone,  
really, hiding it all inside. . . ."  
        "Enough," I  
snap as I leap up and go to the window, staring out at the backside of  
the building across the alley. "I don't want to hear this. I lived  
it, I don't need the instant replay. I'm sorry, Fraser. You weren't  
supposed to know about it. I'm a fuckup, I know it, you don't have to  
rub it in."  
        I hear him get up and  
come over, feel his hand warm on my shoulder. "Ray," he says,  
his voice deep and rough. "I told you it was a Benton Fraser story."  
        "What's that supposed  
to mean?" I mumble, trying hard not to pay attention to that hand.  
        "It means I wasn't  
talking about you."  
        It doesn't sink in at  
first. What the hell is he saying? Of course he was talking about me.  
I'm not stupid, I know . . . . Finally it hits me. I turn, fast, startling  
him, but he doesn't draw back, and his hand returns to my left shoulder.  
We're close now, very close. Practically breathing each other's breath.  
"What?" I demand, staring into his eyes. "What did you  
just say?"  
        "I said I wasn't  
talking about you."  
        For a second I believe  
him, then he has to spoil it by having one of his little truth-seizures.  
        "Well, actually  
I was, of course. You were the friend." He takes a breath, and  
brings his other hand up to my right shoulder. "But the man who  
went away. . . that was me, Ray. Not you."  
        Like they're someone  
else's, my hands come up to rest on top of his. "You? You wanted  
. . . you went away because you thought I wouldn't . . . ?"  
        He nods, somehow understanding  
what I didn't say. "I did. I'm sorry, Ray. I was a coward. Now  
I have to live with the consequences of that action, as do you."  
He slides his hands out from beneath mine and takes a step away. "I  
know you're tired, Ray. I'll go now. I just needed to see you, to tell  
you that. And I needed to make certain you were well."  
        Like it's happening to  
someone else I stand there and watch him walk to the door and unlock  
it, open it. He's leaving. He tells me that and leaves? I'm dumbstruck,  
literally, can't say a word. Diefenbaker's in the middle of the room,  
looking from me to him like he can't decide which one of us is stupider.  
For some reason that does it.  
        "Where the _fuck_  
do you think you're going, Benton Fraser? You set one foot out that  
door and I swear I'll knock you out with the damned coat tree and drag  
you back inside."  
         He shoots a look at  
the item in question and then looks back at me. "That would be  
assault, Ray."  
        "You're damned right  
it would, Mr. Break and Enter. And you'd have earned it. You come  
in here, drop that bombshell, and leave? No way, Benton-buddy. That's  
not how it's going down. Now you get your ass back in here."  
        "I never realized  
you were so aggressive," he says, but there's a little light in  
his eyes I haven't seen in a long time, a little smile on his face, part  
amusement, part challenge.  
        "Then you've got  
a short memory. Ass. Inside. Now. And close the door."  
        "Did this caveman  
technique impress Stella?" he asks, but he steps back inside and  
closes the door.  
        "Low blow,"  
I say. "Guess I could've got out my gun and shot you in the back  
to stop you from making yet another stupid mistake."  
        He winces. "All  
right. I suppose I deserved that."  
        "You did."  
I point at the couch. "Sit."  
        Diefenbaker whines and  
sits down, looking a little puzzled. Guess he was lip-reading.  
        "Not you, him."  
        He gets back up, looks  
at Fraser expectantly, and I could almost swear he's grinning as Fraser  
stomps over to the couch and sits down with a glare at his wolf. I drag  
my steamer trunk around and sit on it, facing him.  
        "Fraser, you really  
went back to Canada because you thought I'd kick you in the head if you  
told me you, um, liked me?"  
        He swallows hard, and  
looks down, but nods.  
        I shake my head. "Jesus,  
and I all this time I thought you were the smart one and I was the pretty  
one. Well, actually I thought you were both, but that's beside the point.  
Do you know what I would have done if you'd told me that a year ago,  
you idiot?"  
        He looks up, a little  
irritation in his eyes. He doesn't like to be called an idiot. Well,  
tough. I'm calling a spade a spade.  
        "No, Ray, obviously  
I have no idea or we wouldn't be here now. Why don't you enlighten me?"  
        My heart is pounding  
like a drummer in a dance band for the second time tonight, only this  
time I don't have that feeling that everything's wrong. Oh no. This  
time everything is right. I don't know where the courage comes from,  
but I reach out and put my hand on his face, turn him just a little.  
"This," I say as I lean forward and put my mouth on his.  
        As kisses go it's not  
much to write home about. No fireworks, no bells. Just a strange, deep  
feeling that I'm. . . . home. We're both awkward, and it ends fast,  
just a dry, close-mouthed brush of skin against skin. Then we're separated  
and staring at each other. He reaches up and touches his mouth with  
his fingers, then reaches over to touch mine.  
        Finally he says. "Ray.  
. . may I . . . ?"  
        I nod. He goes for it.  
Nicer this time. Not such a shock. Still pretty chaste, no tongues,  
but the lips get a little more involved this time, open, and moist.  
Weird to feel the prickle of stubble against my skin. He draws back,  
frowning just a little. Not a bad frown, just his speculative frown.  
I wait, knowing he's formulating some thought. I'm kind of past thinking.  
Finally he speaks.  
        "Is it really that.  
. . easy?"  
        I laugh a little, thinking  
how long it took to get here, and how hard it was for me to lean forward.  
"Wasn't easy."  
        "But it was,"  
he says, and his mouth finds mine again.  
        Brief, slick touch of  
tongues sends a startling little pulse of arousal through me. Niiice.  
Before I can really react he pulls away, and then suddenly he's got his  
arms around me and his face is in the hollow of my shoulder, and as I  
bring my hands up can feel the tremor in his shoulders. "God, Ray,  
I've missed you so much. Sometimes you were all I could think of."  
        I nod, my cheek against  
his hair, feeling the streak of tears down my face. "Me too, Frase.  
Sucked. Hated every minute you were gone."  
        "Not as much as  
I hated being gone."  
        I grin. "Wrong-o,  
Fraser. I think we're even on that one."  
        He smiles back, and I  
have to taste that. Which leads to another full-on kiss, and another.  
We're necking like a couple of teenagers on my couch, and there's a kind  
of warm glow building in my crotch that tells me maybe I didn't flush  
everything for no reason. Maybe Frank was right. I'm not gay. I'm not  
bisexual. I'm Frasersexual. It's not real strong, probably because  
I've been up nearly a full day now and I'm more than tired, but it's  
definitely there. As if thinking it was just the cue it was waiting  
for, a yawn sneaks up out of nowhere and I find myself sagging a little  
against him.  
        "Ray, you're tired,"  
Fraser says.  
        "There you go with  
the obvious," I say, grinning. "Sorry. The spirit is willing  
but the flesh is kind of pooped."  
        He nods. "I'm tired  
as well, Ray. I think this . . . conversation. . . can wait until we're  
both more rested, don't you?"  
        I can't help but laugh  
at that. Only Fraser would call what we were doing a 'conversation.'  
"Yeah, Frase, I think that's a good plan."  
        He nods and stands up.  
"Well, I'll just be going then."  
        "Hunh?" I  
know I'm wearing my 'you're seriously deranged' look as I explain the  
facts of life to him. "Fraser, it's four in the morning, where  
do you think you're going and how are you going to get there?"  
        "Well, I've been  
told about a motel over on Third Street which will probably allow Diefenbaker  
as well, and I thought I'd walk. I am perfectly capable of walking."  
        "No way are you  
going to go stay at the No-Tell Motel, Benton Fraser. And this may be  
Minneapolis, not Chicago, but walking alone late at night through questionable  
neighborhoods still isn't a real good idea. Park it. You can have the  
couch."  
        "And you'll sleep.  
. . ?" he asks, looking around the room pointedly.  
        "On the floor,"  
I say, just a hair short of a snarl because I know he knows how I feel  
about sleeping on the floor. My back will take days to forgive me, I'm  
not as young as I used to be. He looks at me for a long moment, then  
shakes his head.  
        "Why don't I take  
the floor? I'm more used to primitive conditions."  
        "Because you are  
the guest, Fraser, and guests do not sleep on the floor."  
        "Is that Emily Post  
or Miss Manners?" he asks with a hint of a smile lurking around  
the corners of his mouth.  
        I'm still trying to think  
of a snappy comeback for that when he speaks again.  
        "Why don't we take  
the cushions off the back and seat of the couch and spread them side-by-side  
on the floor? If you don't mind sleeping close, that should be wide  
enough for both of us."  
        I look at the couch,  
at the floor. Yeah. It works. Leave it to Fraser. I nod. "Okay,  
you pull the cushions off, I'll get something to put over them."  
        About eight minutes later  
we have a bed. I even manage to convince Fraser that hospital corners  
aren't really necessary in this kind of undertaking. He must be tired,  
too. There's an awkward moment where we stand and kind of look from  
the bed to each other. And I'm thinking _'okay, this is weird'_  
and the funny thing is I know he's thinking the exact same thing, and  
we both laugh at the same time. Tension broken, I strip off my sweater  
and he starts unbuttoning his blue plaid flannel. We don't get naked.  
Just down to skivvies, me in my t-shirt and longline briefs, him in his  
t-shirt and boxers.  
        I lie down, he lies down.  
I pull the covers up, he tugs until he has them properly aligned with  
true north or whatever it is he's doing. In order to make this work  
we have to lie on our sides, curled up like spoons, as Stella used to  
say, and okay, I am not, I repeat not, going to think any more about  
exes of any sort. He feels bigger than I know he is, and he's very warm,  
a lot warmer than me. It's kind of a nice feeling. And I try not to  
pay attention to the fact that he's got . . . bumps. . . in places I'm  
not used to feeling pressed up against me.  
        I'm kind of tense, and  
I can't help but remember the last time we slept together. It was 40  
below and snowing, and we were both fully clothed in arctic gear and  
there were dogs all around. This time it's just me, and him, a little  
cotton, and Diefenbaker. Dief. Damn. I start to get up.  
        "What's wrong, Ray?"  
Fraser asks, so close that his breath stirs the hair behind my ear and  
makes me shiver. He has a hand on my shoulder, keeping me in place.  
        "Dief. I should  
get him a bowl of water."  
        "He's fine, Ray.  
He's been drinking out of the toilet all day, I don't see that a few  
more hours will hurt."  
        I chuckle and relax.  
Sometimes I forget when I haven't been around him in a while how utterly  
practical he can be at times. For some reason just the prim and proper  
tends to stick in my head. Got to get over that, because prim and proper  
is not where we're headed now. I hope. Not too fast but. . . yeah.  
I have a lot of pictures in my head I'd like to try out. And thinking  
about those pictures is not a good way to get to sleep. In particular  
the fact that I'm pretty well worn-out seems to be entirely lost on my  
body, which is perking up a bit. Okay, more than a bit. Thank goodness  
he's behind me instead of in front, since I was the one bitching about  
being pooped. After a few minutes of me trying to pretend I'm sleeping  
he speaks quietly.  
        "Ray?"  
        "Mmm?" I say,  
faking that I'm mostly asleep.  
        "I can't help noticing  
that you're awake. Are you having trouble sleeping?"  
        So I'm not a good faker.  
"Um, yeah. A little."  
        "Would you like  
to try some sort of relaxation technique?"  
        "Like what?"  
I ask, thinking that he probably doesn't mean my usual one.  
        "Well, meditation  
is often useful."  
        I snort, and I can feel  
his amusement.  
        "Yes, well, I suppose  
it does help if one is familiar with the procedure first. There's always  
massage."  
        Oh there sure is, but  
that would just make things worse. "No, sorry, won't work."  
        "I assure you, Ray,  
I'm quite competent, you have nothing to fear."  
        I sigh. Fine time to  
go dense. "It's okay, Fraser, it'll take care of itself. Just  
go to sleep."  
        There's a moment of silence,  
then he says "Ah," and I don't think I'm imagining the increased  
heat radiating off him. I figure he's blushing. He does that. A few  
more seconds pass, and then he speaks again.  
        "I seem to recall  
that you're not very good at waiting. Born premature and all that."  
        "Good memory,"  
I say. I won't beg. I won't. I won't even hint.  
        "There is another  
time-honored technique generally known to be quite relaxing," he  
says, and there's a note in his voice that I've never heard before.  
A whisky-smoke curl of amused. . . seduction? Ohyeah. Oookay. Semi-perked-up  
goes to fully-perked in about three seconds.  
        "There is, hunh?"  
I say.  
        "Mmmhmm. And while  
I can't vouch for its effectiveness on others, I do know it works well  
on myself."  
        Oh man. If I wasn't  
perked before I am definitely now. The mental images that go with that  
little confession would drive a nun to drink. Or something. "So,  
you want to try this technique out, see if it works on me?"  
        "If you're willing.  
And not too tired."  
        "Fraser, I could  
be dead and I'd want to try this out."  
        "I believe necrophilia  
is against the law, Ray."  
        "Well, I'm not dead  
yet, so no problem."  
        For a few seconds neither  
of us move. Hell, what do we know about this? Then his hand shifts  
a little on my shoulder, warm and heavy. Not quite a stroke, not quite  
a caress, something halfway in between. And it feels so good, so right.  
I need this from him. Not because I'm a horn dog. I could go in the  
bathroom and whack off if all I wanted was to come. What I need is knowing  
that he feels this too, this connection, this partnership, that's more  
than either of those words can explain.  
        Without him I feel like  
I'm missing part of me, and it seems like he feels the same. And for  
us to do this, to have this-- the only word I can think of is intimacy,  
and it's a good word, a Fraser word-- pushes us out of whatever we were  
and into what we will be, like a butterfly struggling out of its cocoon.  
His hand slides down my arm, moving from where my t-shirt covers it to  
bare skin, and it's all I can do not to moan out loud at the touch of  
those callused fingers on my arm. That's all, just my arm and I feel  
like this, like I'm about to come apart.  
        "Ray?"  
        His voice sounds just  
like I feel, and his fingers tremble. I realize that he's as freaked  
out about this as I am and. . . needs it just as much.  
        "Yeah, Frase?"  
        "Are you. . . do  
you. . . ."  
        I put my hand on his,  
squeeze it a little. "Yeah. I do. I am." I nudge him with  
my shoulder. He settles back some so I can turn over and look into his  
face, which I can barely see in the pale bars of illumination filtering  
through the blinds from the security lights on the building next door.  
"I do. We're both crazy."  
        He smiles. "Eminently.  
At this rate I'm sure I'll be buried in cabbage leaves."  
        I have no idea what he  
means by that, but I'm sure it makes some Fraser kind of sense. I reach  
over and pull him close. Necking again, but this time horizontal and  
next-to-naked it's a lot different. It doesn't take me long at all to  
notice that I'm not the only one who's perking here. He's hard and hot  
against my thigh. Seems like we both need to relax. Well, maybe I can  
help there. I put my hand on his shoulder, let it slide down the firm  
plane of his chest, trying not to think about how strange that is. He  
tenses, I can feel it in his stomach muscles under my hand, but he doesn't  
say anything, doesn't stop me.  
        I've imagined this about  
a thousand times, never once got it all the way right, the way he'd feel  
in my hand. The silky smoothness of cotton between my hand and his skin,  
the pulsing, living heat of him burning right through that thin covering,  
filling my palm the same but different from how I do. The bend of my  
fingers around him is different, the weight of him, the curve of him,  
everything is different. I let my fingers tighten just a hair, and he  
makes a sound, halfway between a gasp and a sob, and his hips push against  
me. Yeah. Oh yeah. I do it again.  
        "Ray!"  
        I let go instantly.  
"Sorry!"  
        He shakes his head, hard,  
tongue sliding out across his lips. "No, no you . . . it was wonderful,  
but I thought you were the one in need of relaxation."  
        I grin, and let my hand  
settle back down with a little squeeze. "You trying to tell me  
you're relaxed?"  
        He pushes into my hand  
with a long roll of his hips, shakes his head. "No, I . . . no.  
Just . . . can I. . . ?"  
        I've never heard him  
incoherent before. It's a serious turn on. "Go for it."  
        Next thing I know I'm  
flat on my back and he's over me, his hand on me through my briefs like  
I had him, but less tentatively. He squeezes and strokes, then makes  
a sound that ought to have come out of Dief and goes burrowing under  
the elastic waistband of my briefs. For about a fiftieth of a second  
I think I ought to stop this right now, and then he's got me and oh,  
God, it feels so damned good. I buck into his hand, all the while shoving  
my own hands up under his shirt until there's bare skin under my hands,  
but not the bare skin I want.  
        Down then, under elastic,  
and oh. . . yesssss. There. Cup my hands over the solid curves of his  
ass like I've wanted to do forever, it seems. He sucks in air over his  
teeth and dives to kiss me hard, tugs at my lower lip with his teeth,  
sending sparks shooting straight to my cock, which is already pretty  
damned sparky. I can tell right now this isn't going to be my best effort  
ever. I'm too tired to have any kind of control over myself. Trying  
to even things up, I slide my hands around his hips and ease his boxers  
down past the rigid length of his cock, and then pull him down against  
me.  
        Or at least I try to.  
He resists and I don't know why until he lets go of me and starts trying  
to get my briefs down. He's not as careful about it as I was, he's even  
more impatient than me. I have to shove a hand down to keep myself from  
getting tangled in the fabric, and then quick lift my hips so he can  
yank them down to about mid-thigh. Once that's done he's on me in a  
heartbeat, and it's naked skin against naked skin, his cock lined right  
up next to mine, and I can feel the slick hot slide of him against me  
as he starts to move. Yeah. Jesus, yeah. That's great.  
        My hands are back on  
his ass, encouraging him, stroking, and his teeth find my shoulder and  
bite just hard enough to make me jerk in surprise, then next thing I  
know I'm laughing because it just figures that under that proper facade  
he's a wild man. He pulls back to look at me, questioning, and I don't  
want him to think I'm laughing at him so I have to tell him. "I  
knew you had instincts in there somewhere," I say, grinning.  
        He grins too, a beautiful,  
feral thing. "I found you, you're my instinct."  
        I'm still trying to absorb  
that when he stretches out again, and it's strange to be covered by someone  
who's as tall as me, and heavier, and it feels good, better than good,  
and he's moving, his cock against mine, and we're both leaking and slick  
and it doesn't matter that we're dead tired, all that matters is this  
raw, primal connection we're finally, finally making. Two thrusts, three,  
one last, then he's shivering and groaning in my arms as I feel a thick  
wet heat spread across my belly and my cock. That's all it takes. I  
join him, making an even bigger mess between us. He collapses down onto  
me for a minute, then kind of grunts and shoves himself up on one arm.  
        "Sorry, Ray,"  
        I pull him back down.  
"It's okay, Frase."  
        He rests for a few moments,  
his breathing evening out, then he lifts his head to give me a long,  
searching look. I know what he wants to know, without him saying a word.  
I feel heat in my face, and I'm surprised I can blush at this point,  
but I nod. He smiles almost shyly at that and tucks his face back in  
against my neck. I squeeze him. Okay, so it wasn't great. In fact  
on a scale of one to ten it was probably about a three, but that doesn't  
matter. It was the best lousy sex I ever had in my entire life, because  
it was Fraser, and it was me, and we're both in the same place at the  
same time feeling the same things and we're happy about it.  
        After a little while  
he pushes off me again and rolls away onto his back with a sigh that  
sounds so contented it makes me smile. Without his warmth the mess on  
my stomach starts to feel cold so I struggle the rest of the way out  
of my underwear and use it to mop up, first me, then him. That's a strange  
experience, cleaning come off some other guy. Not bad, just strange.  
He tries to stop me at first and I give him my patented Look, and he  
settles back and lets me do it, turning about eight shades of red that  
I shouldn't be able to see in this light, but I can. After I'm done  
I figure it's pretty silly to wear the t-shirt without anything else  
so I strip down the rest of the way, and notice him doing the same.  
        I debate for a minute  
going and getting a washrag to really clean up right, but, damn it, I'm  
barely keeping my eyes open so I figure we're good for now. We'll have  
to rent a motel room somewhere tomorrow for a shower. Maybe that place  
on Third would be okay, since I'll be there to defend his honor. I wad  
my messy shorts up in a ball and stick them under the corner of our makeshift  
bed, then stretch out next to him. After a few seconds he reaches out  
and pulls me close, and I feel a rush that's almost better than coming  
as I settle in against him, my head on his shoulder.  
        I know there are tons  
of things we still need to talk about, and I know eventually he's going  
to have to go home and I'm going to have to stay here, but I won't think  
about that now. This moment is as close to perfect as I can imagine,  
and I'm going to live in it for a while.

* * *  


  
        I wake long before Ray  
does. That's not surprising, I've always been an early riser, but this  
morning I would have slept in a little if it hadn't been for a certain  
wet, cold nose in the face. I sigh and push Diefenbaker away, then lie  
there savoring the feel of Ray next to me, finally as close as I've wanted  
him to be. Everything said and done since he walked through that door  
has been a revelation in so many ways. I find it hard to believe that,  
as well as I know Ray, I misjudged him so completely in this area. I  
know I'm prone to a degree of willful blindness, but usually I err toward  
the positive side, not the negative.  
        It does explain a great  
deal, though, about the last few weeks before I left for home. If he  
was feeling the same things I was, no wonder it was so difficult not  
to tell him. My instincts were telling me I was right to feel the way  
I felt. It was, as is usual between Ray and myself, my intellect which  
got in the way. There are certain drawbacks to living primarily in one's  
head, as I do, as opposed to in one's heart, as Ray does. I suppose  
there are drawbacks to that as well. It seems that each of us supplies  
the balance for the other. It's why we made good partners. And though  
I hesitate to think of the future at this early stage, it seems we might  
make good partners again, though in quite a different way.  
        The future. Now that  
I've allowed that thought out, it quickly takes root and begins to sprout,  
sending tendrils seeking the sun. The future. Now that I've found him  
again, I can't imagine giving him up, but do we have a choice? While  
he did astonishingly well on our Franklin trek, I don't think he would  
be happy relocating permanently northward. He's not a small-town sort  
of person. Not only that, but from what I can tell, he couldn't at present  
meet the financial requirements for immigration to Canada, even were  
he interested in doing so.  
        As for me, well. . .  
I'm quite certain that 'Law Enforcement' is not one of the categories  
on the TN list, and I'm not exactly cut out for anything else. I suppose  
I might qualify as a non-degreed professional in the H-1B classification  
but that would presuppose my being able to find a law enforcement agency  
which wished to hire me, and was willing to meet the rather stringent  
documentation requirements involved. It's a bit of a quandary.  
        Diefenbaker makes a soft  
whine and I sigh. Unless I want to clean up after him, I really must  
get up and take him out. I put a finger to my lips to shush him and  
begin an attempt to extricate myself from Ray's embrace without waking  
him. I'm not successful. His hands tighten on my shoulder and waist.  
        "Don't. Don't go,"  
he says softly into my neck.  
        I recognize the fear  
in his voice. It's a reflection of my own. "I'm not," I soothe.  
"It's just that Diefenbaker needs a walk. I'm afraid that while  
he may drink out of the toilet, he's never quite managed to figure out  
using one."  
        Ray laughs at that, and  
lifts his head. "We'll all go, then."  
        "You're tired, Ray,  
you need to rest."  
        He looks at me steadily.  
"I need you more than rest."  
        I can't begin to express  
what that does to me. I can feel myself start to shake, feel the sting  
of tears in my eyes and nose, and I turn my head so he won't see it because  
I know that men don't indulge in such foolishness, but he just wraps  
me in his long, strong arms and holds me as the tears come.  
        "Hey," he says  
after a I start to calm down. "The wolf's crossing his legs here.  
Let me up and I'll take care of him."  
        I start to sit up. "No,  
Ray, he's my resp. . . ."  
        "Down, boy,"  
he says with a wink. "I got it. Dief, c'mere." Dief follows  
Ray over to the window, where he opens the blinds.  
        "Ray!"  
        "What?"  
        "You're naked."  
        "Astonishing powers  
of observation there, Frase," he says. "Don't worry, no one  
will be at work across the way until after eight. Besides, mostly dark  
in here, mostly dark out there, nobody could see anything anyway."  
He pushes up the sash and pats the sill with one hand. "Okay, you  
looking at me?" he says to Diefenbaker, crouching down so they're  
eye-to-eye. "I'm taking a chance here, so you have to be good,  
okay? There's a scone in it for you if you behave. You go down the  
fire stairs here, find a spot to do your thing where nobody'll step in  
it, and then you come right back up, got it?"  
        Dief grumbles. He wants  
a proper walk.  
        Ray stands firm. "Got  
it?" he repeats. This time he gets an assent, and smiles. "Good.  
Maybe you're the smart one here. Okay, go. You got five minutes before  
I call the dog-catcher to come get your ass."  
        Dief puts his paws on  
the windowsill, then he gathers himself and is gone. Ray turns back  
to me, shaking his head. "So, any bets on how long he's gone?"  
        I shake my head solemnly.  
"I never wager on Diefenbaker when baked goods are involved."  
        Ray laughs, then comes  
back over to kneel on the cushions beside me. "Okay. We got some  
talking to do, I think."  
        I nod. "Yes. We  
do."  
        He nods too, takes a  
deep breath, very serious now. "Didn't you trust me, Frase? Even  
if we weren't on the same page, did you really think that it would have  
made any difference to me if you were straight or not? Haven't we made  
it through enough that you could tell me?"  
        I clear my throat, feeling  
miserable as I try to find a way to explain that makes any sense. "It  
wasn't a matter of trust, Ray. At least, I didn't see it that way.  
Even at the time I knew that if I told you that I was questioning my  
sexuality you would be understanding and supportive. That was never  
the issue. It was simple fear that you wouldn't reciprocate my feelings."  
        He starts to say something  
then, but I shake my head and he quiets, waiting.  
        "I . . . haven't  
had very good luck in with any sort of relationship, be it familial or  
amicable, let alone the rather more hazardous landscape of significant  
others. At the time it seemed preferable to try and retain what there  
was of our friendship rather than risking it."  
        He thinks about that,  
sighs, and nods. "Yeah, okay. I get that. I just wish you'd said  
something."  
        "As do I. However,  
in fairness, you said nothing either."  
        He sighs, and nods, a  
rueful expression on his face. "No. I didn't. I wanted to. I  
almost came out with it a dozen times or more, but I could never figure  
out a way to say it that didn't sound wrong, didn't sound like I just  
wanted to get into your pants, and that's not it. Or, well, not all  
of it," he says with a grin and a wink.  
        I feel myself blush,  
an utterly ridiculous physical response in a man my age, especially after  
what we did last night, or more accurately, earlier this morning. I  
know what he's saying to me, I know the depth of it, despite the fact  
that 'the words' have not actually been spoken. I feel an intense need  
to verbalize my feelings, something I've done only once or twice in my  
life. I've not had good luck with that either. When I once attempted  
to say something similar to my father he had threatened to do me bodily  
harm. That conditioning is hard to break. So even though I'd rather  
say it flat out, instead I find myself approaching it obliquely.  
        "I . . . understand  
the dilemma. There are certain cultural expectations which accompany  
a declaration of love, some of them being sexual, and that's generally  
taboo between two men."  
        He stares at me, his  
eyes lambent in the soft gray pre-dawn light, and a slow smile breaks  
over his face as brilliant as any sunrise. "Holy cow," he  
says softly. "I almost missed it, in there with all the Fraserisms.  
Damn it, you beat me to it. I was going to say it first, make it easier  
for you. I don't want to hear another word about you being a coward.  
That took guts." He takes a deep breath, looks me in the eyes.  
"Benton Fraser, I love you."  
        It might not seem romantic  
or moving to some, coming from a naked man in a shabby office with cold  
winter air blowing in an open window, but I can't imagine anything more  
fulfilling. In my entire adult life the only other person who ever said  
anything even close to that to me was a woman whose soul was as dark  
as her hair. Ray is her consummate opposite, not only in gender, but  
in every possible aspect. I know that as surely as I know my own name.  
Once committed, he gives himself wholly, without reservation. Now I  
have to find it in me to match that, for he deserves no less.  
        I reach for him and he  
comes to me without hesitation. We lie there, just holding each other  
for a little while. He shivers, and I make him get under the covers,  
taking the chill from him with my own warmth. Diefenbaker returns, but  
neither of us wants to get up and close the window so we leave it, and  
the radiator in the corner knocks and pings loudly as it attempts to  
compensate for the heat loss. Dief lies down under the window with  
a roll of his eyes. He's not a romantic sort, but I know he's pleased  
that Ray has rejoined the pack. Neither Ray nor I speak for a long time,  
content for the moment to just exist together. Finally he stirs a little.  
        "So," he says.  
        "Mmm?" I respond,  
just to let him know I'm paying attention.  
        "Where do we go  
from here?"  
        I see I'm not the only  
one who's been thinking of such things. "I don't know," I  
say honestly. "There are some obvious difficulties."  
        He makes a rude noise.  
"Oh yeah. Like the little fact that we live three thousand miles  
apart."  
        "That would be the  
major one," I say with a sigh. "If you were still in Chicago  
it might be less problematic. In all likelihood I could get a transfer  
back to the consulate, should I request one. However, that's clearly  
not an option now."  
        He nods and sighs. "Yeah,  
that bridge is pretty well gutted. Welsh would probably take me back,  
but you know, I really don't want to go. I'm settling in here, I kind  
of like it here. It's nice. People are cool, and mostly they don't  
poke their nose into what or who you do in bed. I like what I'm doing,  
though I need to see about getting my name changed. Too bad there's  
not a Canadian consulate in Minneapolis."  
        He must have felt the  
change in my body at that, because he twists to stare at me in concern.  
        "What?"  
        "There _is_  
a Canadian consulate in Minneapolis," I say quietly.  
        He stares at me for a  
moment. "There is?"  
        I nod. "Yes. I  
regularly sent correspondence to and received it from that office when  
I worked at the consulate in Chicago."  
        A tentative smile starts  
in his eyes. "So, maybe you could. . . . "  
        "Theoretically,  
yes," I say. "Though of course there are no guarantees."  
        He thinks about it, then  
sighs. "No, I couldn't do that to you. You belong where you are."  
        "I belong where  
you are," I correct him.  
        I don't think I imagine  
the sudden flush of color in his face at that, but he shakes his head,  
obstinate, as always.  
        "But you'd get homesick,  
miss the wide open spaces, the woods, the snow, all that stuff."  
        "I'd miss none of  
it as much as I've missed you."  
        "You'd miss it,"  
he says gruffly, and I suspect I've embarrassed him. "You know  
you would. You'd miss the low crime rate, everything."  
        I tug at my ear. "Well,  
honestly Ray, there's something a little embarrassing about having people  
deliberately commit misdemeanors just to give one something to do."  
        He stares at me. "You're  
kidding."  
        "No, unfortunately  
not."  
        He shakes his head, looking  
amused. "Jesus, Frase. They must really like you up there in the  
Great White North."  
        I laugh out loud at that,  
something I rarely do, and he lifts his eyebrows, asking to share the  
joke. "It's just that a few days ago when I realized for certain  
that's what they were doing, I imagined you saying almost that very thing,"  
I explain.  
        He smiles. "You  
really know me, don't you?" Just as suddenly as it came, his smile  
fades and he sighs. "See, that's what I'm talking about. I don't  
want to take you away from that. Maybe I could move up there? Being  
a P.I. in Canada can't be too much different from being one here. Just  
a different beat, that's all."  
        "I'm afraid that  
would be a rather difficult undertaking, since you're not a citizen."  
        "Oh," he says,  
looking crestfallen. "Didn't think of that. Damn. There must  
be some way. . . ."  
        He looks at me hopefully,  
and I try to come up with something, even something farfetched. "Well,  
I suppose I could adopt you," I say, grasping at straws. "If  
you could convince the court that you have no living relatives and are  
in urgent need of my support."  
        He looks amused. "So  
that'd make you my dad? That's kind of . . . kinky there, Fraser. Should've  
figured that might appeal to you after the whole Maggie thing."  
        Before I can protest  
my innocence he winks to let me know he's teasing, and goes on, more  
seriously.  
        "No, I don't think  
that's the way to go. Damn."  
        My own mind keeps coming  
back to the fact that there's a consulate here, and that I'm intimately  
familiar with the workings of a consulate. "You know, Ray, if I  
were to manage a transfer here, I do get a reasonable amount of leave  
time every year. I understand that Minnesota has some lovely wilderness  
areas. In addition there's nothing to stop me from going back to the  
Territories from time to time. One assumes there might be slow periods  
where you might be able to accompany me."  
        "True. That's one  
good thing about being self-employed. Trying to figure out the taxes  
is hell, though."  
        "I could help with  
that," I offer.  
        He grins. "Okay,  
that proves it. You're either in love or unhinged."  
        "Possibly both,"  
I say.  
        He chuckles. "Probably  
both. All right. I give in, that's option one. What if you can't get  
a transfer?"  
        "We'll find a way."  
I say firmly.  
        He's solemn again, his  
moods as mercurial as ever. "Yeah. We will. Whatever it takes."  
        "Whatever it takes,"  
I agree. Inside me the ice starts to break up and float away on the  
channel he's melted into my reserve. "Whatever it takes."

* * *  


  
        "Hey, Frase, how  
was your day?" I ask, because I always ask before I jump him.  
It's only polite, after all, and after six months in Minneapolis (though  
only four of those with Fraser for a roommate because it took a while  
to work the transfer) I'm learning.  
        He puts his hat on the  
coat tree next to the door and I hear the familiar rip of velcro as he  
opens his collar. Like some famous dog, I feel myself start to salivate.  
        "It was a day much  
like any other," he says, without turning as he undoes buttons.  
"I'll confess I'm looking forward to our trip."  
        "Me too. But it  
wasn't quite a day like any other," I say, pleadingly.  
        He turns around finally,  
unbuttoned, hands on the cross-strap of his Sam Browne. He looks a bit  
sweaty. Not surprising, since it's been pretty warm today and he's wearing  
all that wool. I step forward, sniff . . . yeah. Oh yeah. He's looking  
at me with raised eyebrows, though. "What made it extraordinary?"  
he prompts.  
        "Frannie called."  
        "Did everything  
go well? Boy or girl?"  
        "It's a girl this  
time, and everything is fine. She says her doc told her she was built  
to have babies."  
        "I'm glad. Has  
she chosen a name?"  
        "Um, yeah."  
        He looks at me, and I  
can see he's bracing for it. I grin.  
        "How bad is it?"  
he asks.  
        I drag it out a bit.  
"I guess it depends on your point of view. I mean, her brother  
already wants to come after me with an axe for tarnishing his Mountie,  
now he might show up looking for you with a shotgun."  
        He looks at me in dawning  
horror. "Oh lord, she didn't saddle a girl with that, did she?  
It was bad enough being a boy with it!"  
        "Well, she sorta  
got around it. I guess it's not too bad. . . ."  
        "All right, you've  
had your fun, Ray!" he snaps, getting a little snarky.  
        I chuckle. "Benita.  
Benita Raye." I wrinkle my nose, just to let him know I've been  
teasing myself, too.  
That gets him. His eyes get kind of misty. I have to admit, mine did  
too when she told me. He clears his throat.  
        "Well,  
that's not too dreadful, really."  
        "Yeah, I guess,"  
I allow. "Not that it's all that great being named after tuna."  
        "That's bonita,  
Ray," he says severely. "And it's Spanish for 'beautiful.'"  
        "I know, I know,  
I'm just yanking your chain," I say, tugging on his lanyard, which  
is the closest thing to a chain he has. "Think she'll ever forgive  
her mom for naming her after her queer uncles?"  
        He sighs, and before  
he can lecture me I put my mouth over his. As usual whatever he was  
going to say gets lost in our kiss. I finally found a way to shut him  
up. While Welsh is a good guy, we've been careful not to rub his nose  
in our relationship. I know better than to think he wouldn't've had  
a cow if I'd ever done this to Fraser in the bullpen. Cow. Bullpen.  
I start to laugh against Fraser's lips and have to stop kissing him.  
        "What's so amusing?"  
he asks testily, clearly suspecting that he's the cause.  
        "Just thinking about  
Welsh's face if I'd ever done that to you at the 27th."  
        He snickers, an explosive  
little laugh that gets to me in a way I can't explain. I never thought  
I'd see him laugh like that, but I've learned there are a lot of things  
Fraser never let himself do until he let go of enough of his armor that  
he could actually breathe. Sometimes I could kick myself for not seeing  
sooner that he needed that like I needed the air he gave me when I was  
drowning. I kind of half-knew it at the time, I didn't let him get away  
with a lot of the stuff other people let him get away with, but I didn't  
get inside far enough either.  
        Sometimes I want to go  
back in time and ask his dad what the hell he thought he was doing, teaching  
his son to shut himself off like that. But I guess he didn't know any  
better, just like my folks don't know any better. It's all just part  
of how they were brought up. Not that it doesn't still hurt, but I understand  
it.  
        "Ray? Are you all  
right?"  
        Damn. Busted. "Yeah,  
Frase. Just thinking about . . . things."  
        He nods, looking warm  
and sympathetic. "Sometimes things remind us of other things."  
        That shouldn't make sense,  
but it does. "Yeah. Exactly." I don't want to think about  
that stuff now, though. Now we should be celebrating. It's the weekend  
and we're heading off tomorrow for a week at a cabin up by Lake Namakan  
in Voyageurs National Park, where Fraser and I will expend copious amounts  
of calories doing all those nature-boy things he and Dief love like hiking  
and fishing, and a few nature-boy things I love. . . speaking of which,  
I got interrupted here. I grab the lanyard again, damn thing is handy,  
and pull him in.  
        His tongue slides over  
mine, warmly welcoming. I never get tired of this, of him. Not likely  
to. We might have started off awkward but it didn't take us long to  
get the hang of things. There's a real plus to having a partner who's  
a research fanatic. It comes in really handy when you don't know what  
the hell you're doing, even if he does bring home reading material that  
would make a Marine blush.  
        His hands are moving  
up under my t-shirt, fingers lightly stroking my nipples. I never knew  
how sensitive I was there until him. And it's not fair because he's  
still got all his layers on even if the top one is loose. Usually I'm  
pretty good with de-uniforming him, but tonight my hands are shaking  
and I'm suddenly feeling like we haven't had sex in a month instead of  
just night before last. Of course, not de-uniforming him has its own  
appeal. I move my mouth reluctantly from his, lick his ear, which makes  
him shiver, and whisper into it.  
        "Bed."  
        I give the word a little  
emphasis with a light squeeze of his cock through his pants. He pulls  
back a little, stares at me, his eyes wild and hot. I grin. Oh boy,  
Alpha Fraser. Always nice. He takes my mouth again, and yes, take is  
the right word, and starts walking me backward toward the bedroom door.  
About a third of the way there he stops, licks his way to my ear, and  
purrs into it.  
        "Do you really think  
the bed is entirely necessary?"  
        Well, when he puts it  
that way. . . . I smile, and reach for his zipper. "Hell no."

 

* * * Finis * * *  


Comments to:  


* * *

  
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Kat Allison for the Minneapolis minutiae.  
I'm fully aware that there is no earthly reason why a Mountie should  
serve in any capacity at a consulate-- either in Chicago, Minneapolis,  
or _anywhere_ really, but it's not my fault! Paul Haggis started  
it! So there. :-P  
  
No, I'm not terminally confused. I know there's a nightclub in Chicago  
called The Metro that's NOT a gay bar, but there's also a club in Minneapolis  
called The Metro that *is.*  
  
This story was primarily inspired by the following three songs. And,  
yes, I'm going to inflict the lyrics on you. Bail now or forever hold  
your peace. :-)  


**_All The Ways I Want You_**   
  
The hills are full of secrets  
Owls watch by night   
Down in town the bars are full   
And the drunks are picking fights   
These are things I know   
But the facts are filtered through   
All the ways I want you   
  
2:19 freight train   
Moaning somewhere near   
I see you in the distance   
But I can't get there from here   
Hard to believe it's happening   
But my whole world's shrunken to   
All the ways I want you   
  
Stars look down and laugh at me   
I ought to take a bow   
Don't have to tell them life's hard sometimes   
There's one falling now   
Nobody's here beside me   
I can talk about it to   
All the ways I want you   
  
  
_**Closer to the Light**_   
  
There you go, swimming deeper into mystery   
Here I remain, only seeing where you used to be   
Stared at the ceiling, 'til my ears filled up with tears   
Never got to know you, suddenly you were out of here   
  
Chorus:   
Gone from mystery into mystery   
Gone from daylight into night   
Another step deeper into darkness   
Closer to the light   
  
Walked outside, summer moon was nearly down   
Mist on the field, holy stillness all around   
Death's no stranger, no stranger than the life I've seen   
Still I cry, still I begged to get you back again   
  
Repeat chorus   
  
both songs © 1994 Bruce Cockburn   
from the cd _Dart to the Heart_ |  _**When the Ice Goes Out**_   
  
Well I can't say 'cause I don' t know about that   
All I know is here in my hat   
And that hat ain't even on my head   
I'm seeing blue and feeling red   
  
Whether I'm right or whether I'm wrong   
Whether you will weather this winter song   
The season will break and the colors will run   
Whether I'm right or whether I'm wrong   
  
It's shiver me this and shiver me that   
I want to hear the crack of a baseball bat   
Never giving up the heat that's where it's at   
Shiver me this or shiver me that   
  
Infinities run in the limited man   
I can't do everything but I will do what I can   
You know that last year I dreamed the minimum   
And enemies, I made a few of them   
I didn't know the spring until I came here   
Here we're pushing up on the lid   
On the cool hemisphere   
Everything melts I know, even your tears   
Here in this hemisphere   
  
What matters the most is what you do for free   
Me believing in you and you in me   
You try to find work and you do your best   
You get what you get and you deserve the rest   
  
You're the sun before day   
And the stars before night   
The pull before love   
And the love before the light   
I may be wrong but I may be right   
Here before day or there before night   
  
Want to be by the river when the ice goes out   
I want to take a little know-how   
From the shadow of doubt   
I want to feel like I know what I'm talking about   
Oh when the ice goes out   
Oh when the ice goes out   
  
  
© 1998 John Gorka  
from the cd _After Yesterday_  
---|---


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